The Timberline Letter

Produced by Ed Chinn, Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy

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4d ago

Whiskey on a Sunday

I joined the ranchers, farmers, and town folks who slowly gathered on a quiet Sunday morning in Bastrop, Texas. For several years, that “house church” had met in Bob and Sue Long’s home. Although they invited me to speak, I quickly realized the real speaker that morning was Bob and Sue’s dog, “Whiskey.” As soon as everyone sat in a circle, Whiskey wandered in and plopped down in the loop of boots and fell sound asleep. Totally relaxed, no concerns about religious etiquette or expectations. No fear of going to hell. She didn’t know or care that it was Sunday. The dog radiated the fullness of her dogness. She was a portrait of Peace in the Presence. The people sang. Whiskey slept. And God saw that it was good. One of the largest and oldest questions all humans face: How do creatures live in the presence of their Creator? Do I live from the fullness of God’s Fatherhood and design, or do I feel the need for continuous self-protection, affirmation, and cosmetic surgery? For me, it all took me back to when my uncle Harold died in a tractor accident in 1992. His siblings all worried about the impact of his death on their father. That was perfectly logical and understandable; Grandpa had lost his wife, Harold’s mother, just 30 days earlier. So, on that day, everyone whispered, tiptoed, and avoided conversations or eye contact with Grandpa. Finally, he nailed his daughter, “Vita, what’s going on around here?” She broke. “Oh, Daddy, it’s really bad.” “I know it’s bad. I just need a name.” That moment revealed a 95-year-old man who was at rest in his home, the universe, and the awesome God he’d known for nearly a century. He could face anything because of the great arc of his life and faith. Like a holocaust survivor, that arc had carried him beyond all that was theologically starched and packaged. Pascal wrote “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”[1] Grandpa had learned to be at rest in the Presence. Although he was a flawed man, he knew that whatever came from the hand of God would not injure him; it would not disturb his identity and security. Whatever your beliefs, assumptions, fears, or doubts, you are surely aware of an Awesome Presence. He is always there, loving us, unsettling us, confirming us, confronting us, stopping us, sending us. He does not intend to destroy us. We are the works of His hand. What makes us think he produces junk? We do not understand Him. But, as Whiskey would tell you, “Relax. The Presence is safe.” [1] Blaise Pascal, Pensées, fragment 139 (Brunschvicg edition) / 136 (Lafuma edition) The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
Jul 24

Beyond the Pale

A tiny trespass onto a neighbor’s property can seem harmless. Nobody will notice. It is only a shortcut. But eventually, others follow that route. In time, a private intrusion becomes a well-worn path. Recently, my neighbor introduced an intrusion into my life. His newly installed security lights poured bucketfuls of lumens through my bedroom window each night. So, I quickly planted tall bushes to block the light. When they proved ineffective, I erected a six-foot-high, finest-quality fence, finally blocking his solar blast. When physical or psychological boundaries are crossed, we become intruders, taking what is not rightfully ours. England’s invasion of Ireland in the fourteenth century had become a failing and regrettable trespass. Many of the English Norman invaders had “gone native,” assimilating into Irish life. The land still under English control had dwindled largely to the region surrounding Dublin. To mark the boundary of that shrinking territory, the English erected fence posts, or “pales,” an old word for stakes or barriers. The territory outside English control was said to be “beyond the pale.” Most incursions in our own lives do not resemble territorial warfare. They begin more quietly, subtly disrupting our routines and nudging the boundaries that make us comfortable. A college student with little money once needed a place to stay while he searched for work. Sympathetic to his situation, I invited the charming and intelligent young man to use our extra bedroom. The act of welcoming strangers, according to a biblical text, could mean we’re unknowingly entertaining angels. At first, we did seem to be hosting an angel. Our guest was kind and affable—and especially punctual at mealtimes, accepting every meal we placed before him. As he became more comfortable in his new residence, however, the boundaries began to shift. He gradually displaced me from my favorite armchair. His music produced mini-tsunamis in our fish tank. Our once-tidy home began to resemble a thrift-store donation center. When others place us on the wrong side of the pale, the neat fence separating what is ours from what is theirs has been breached. It can feel like discovering that someone has mixed the colored laundry with the whites. Each incursion differs, and each kind calls for a different response. Did we create the intrusion? Are we its victim? Or did we invite it? In the first instance, we are the trespassers. Like the pathway, we have entered, uninvited, into something that is not ours—another person’s property, privacy, belongings, or heart. Our intrusion carried us into a place where we had no claim and did not belong. Such trespasses often bring consequences. In the second instance, like the unwanted glare from my neighbor’s security light, we are the victims of an intrusion. We are not the transgressors; someone else has crossed the boundary. We have two choices: retaliate against the encroachment or pursue the more arduous path of understanding and reconciliation. Finally, like my invitation to the college student, we may willingly allow an unexpected interruption into our lives. We take in a stranger, or welcome a socially displaced outsider, or offer shelter to an anxious immigrant. We gamble with our own comfort. We choose to cross conventional boundaries and venture beyond the pale, where the landscape is less certain, but the rewards are far greater. And when we do, we may discover something unexpected just beyond that pale—perhaps even a visit from angels. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
Jul 10

Beyond Charlton Heston's Beard

Written and Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy When my husband, David, was a pilot with the US Air Force, we had the privilege of moving to various airbases around the world. Back in 2016, we prepared for our move to an 800-square-foot apartment in South Korea. Naturally, we began whittling our belongings down to the necessities. During that time of downsizing at our Arizona home, my mom came for a visit. Among her other insights, she saw that a collapsible mini crib for our baby would fit better in our tiny space than the modern monstrosities that filled most American nurseries. I agreed. She was also confident that we would easily find one at a garage sale. On that point, I disagreed—but I resisted the urge to throw out the statistical unlikelihood of that happening. However, I was happy to have quality time with my mom, so we hit a few sales early on a Saturday morning. As we drove, she declared again that we were going to find a mini crib. My doubts began to suffocate under the weight of her faith. It was not a new feeling. My mother is a Miracle. That’s her maiden name. And Deana Lea Miracle Chinn carries that heritage with a confidence that doesn’t leave much room for doubt. So, I decided to practice a little faith rather than teach Mom (and my Creator) about improbabilities. At the first sale, we found it--a beautiful mini-crib. Just sitting there. A delicate hitchhiker on the side of a dusty highway, it called out to me. It reminded me that even faith as small as a mustard seed can shift statistics and probabilities. Mom was unfazed, as if this were perfectly normal. That’s when I noticed something I had seen before; there was something very ordinary about the whole thing. Miracles can be like that. Living through one seldom feels like “The Ten Commandments,” with waters rushing up into the sky as Charlton Heston’s beard whips fiercely in the wind. Sometimes they just quietly roll across our day. Maybe it should be commonplace to live with miracles, and living a life without them (or without acknowledging them) is what’s unusual. Even bizarre, hollow, icy. My friends and I were once called to pray for a Mongolian baby that had blue spots all over his body. As we prayed for his healing, he kept screaming. And then, he just … stopped. He had peace, joy, and perfect pink cheeks like all babies should. We thanked God and went home. It felt so normal that I wondered, were there ever any spots, or was that my imagination? I didn’t hear a rushing wind or the voice of God. That was that. Simple. Undramatic. Webster’s Dictionary defines supernatural as being “beyond or exceeding the powers or laws of nature.”[1] But maybe “supernatural” and “natural” are worthless adjectives. Who are we to pronounce anything “miraculous,” “commonplace,” “raw,” “natural,” or “supernatural?” The smallest systems, even invisible ones, are full of complexity. Every atom, molecule, sunrise, and solar system reflects its Creator. As living wonders, they travel paths that require a miraculous touch. may not need to be designated as official “miracles.” What do we mean when we speak about “concrete reality?” Concrete is a hardened mix of water, sand, cement, and gravel. Reality is an ever-shifting, pulsing dynamic of heartbeats, oxygen, blood, smiles, laughter, birdsong, tomatoes on the vine, and deep-sea illumination. We live in an astonishing world. Perhaps we should expect more miracles. It would be only natural. [1] Webster, Noah. “Definition.” An American Dictionary of the English Language, S. Converse, 1828. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
Jul 3

The Narrow Door

Written by: Ed Chinn Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy In the early fifties, my parents and a few other young couples came together to form a new Pentecostal church in Pratt, Kansas. They bought an old one-room school building and moved it onto a corner lot in Pratt. Then Dad led the way through the design, renovation, excavation, and construction phases. When finished, we had suitable space for meetings, Sunday School, and a basement-level home for a pastor and family. My parents loved joining with others to help bring that church to reality. They poured themselves out for a dream, a call. And they did it with joy for a quarter century. The End of the Road But that golden season of church life came to a stop in the late 70s. I saw it when our family drove from our Texas home up to Pratt to spend a weekend with my parents. At some point during that weekend, Dad and I parked in front of that little church building and talked of the old days. Then Dad opened his pickup door, “Okay, now I want to show you something.” I followed him up the front steps. Dad pulled a tape measure from his overalls pocket and stretched it across the door. As he gazed at the tape, he kept shaking his head. “What’s wrong, Dad?” “A casket won’t fit through this door.” The words delivered a gut punch to the old way I had seen my dad. He was now a man facing retirement and regrets, feeling the sand suck away from his feet as the tide went out. My heart broke to think of him driving to the mortuary, asking to see caskets, and measuring them as he slowly realized none would fit through the church’s narrow door. I saw how disappointment entered his heart space. No sonic boom, just a slow-motion disintegration of a dream. This was serious. He and Mom had given so much. That place that had fostered the lives of farmers, ranchers, young families, the elderly, and other community members could not host a final celebration of those lives. The finish line had to be moved somewhere else. What did it all mean now? I watched as Dad asked one of life’s hardest questions. Dis-appointed Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language (1828) breaks “disappoint” down to “dis-appoint.” [1] A better job or home may have been “appointed,” but when it collided with facts, it was “dis-appointed.” Evicted, rejected, defeated. Disappointment doesn’t mean we calculated selfishly or foolishly. Sometimes it just reminds us that we are not the authors of life. We do our best, but our strength is limited; our vision is partial. In our incompleteness, we make choices, announce plans, and fill our calendars. Then life erases those “dates with destiny.” But perhaps what we lost wasn’t real life, but our small views of it. We’ve all heard—even from our own lips—that embarrassing, sometimes tragic phrase, “But I thought...” Disappointment can come to us as a gift, toppling small, unworthy, or lethal dreams. For example, it seems my biggest disappointments have involved damaged or dead relationships. But I can also see that if some of them had come to the result I preferred, I would not have met my Joanne ... or our kids or grandkids. My parents eventually came to the same place. After walking through the narrow places of preferences, severances, and measuring doors, they walked into a larger faith, wider vision, and unexpected grace notes. Life has a way of taking us beyond suffocating constrictions into the panorama of a new landscape. [1] Noah Webster, American Dictionary of the English Language (Foundation for American Christian Education, San Francisco, CA, 1828) The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
May 28

California Dreamin'

In 1957 my dad lost his job on the Rock Island Railroad. So did half a million other rail workers across the US. Since everyone expected a call-back of rail employees within a year, Dad wrote and phoned old friends, including other World War 2 vets, to ask if they knew of any temporary jobs. One of Dad’s ship buddies invited Dad to move to the Monterey Bay area of California, where he was building homes. Work was steady; his company was hiring. So, we moved from Kansas to California. An apartment overlooking the beach in Seacliff became our new home. For impressionable boys—I was ten and Vernon was seven (Carl had not been born yet)—Kansas was a suffocating 19th century monotone of dirt roads, grain elevators, barbed wire fences, sweltering summer heat, and blizzards in winter. California was California, a stunning technicolor vision of life’s best. Breathtaking beaches, the vast blue Pacific, redwood and eucalyptus trees, and the lush beauty of flowers splashing down the banks of freeways and across residential areas. Santa Cruz, Watsonville, Monterey, Rio del Mar, Aptos, and La Selva Beach marked the boundaries of our gorgeous habitation. Best of all, for the first time we had Dad really with us. In Kansas, when the Rock Island called, he vanished from our lives. But in California, he was home every evening and weekend. We liked this stranger; he took us places and played ball with Vernon and me in our own Field of Dreams. When Dad and Mom began talking about the possibility of staying in California, Vernon and I jumped like basketballs dropped from a windmill. We even looked at a home for sale, a beautiful, large, bright white home on a golf fairway in Rio del Mar. Just $14,000. Dad, Mom, please; we can be Californians! In the end, when the railroad called us all back to Kansas, we obeyed. The dream died. It was as it should be; we were not Californians; we were Kansas kids. California had just been a sweet dream. But that California adventure became part of my wiring. The wild contrast between Kansas and the expanse of California beauty—The Golden Gate Bridge, Pebble Beach, Sequoia National Park—became a magical metaphor of the possibilities that can roll out of any moment, situation, or relationship. Tomorrow can crash into now; the kingdom comes, health and wealth beautify people everyday, Heaven conquers hell. The new can pass through any portal—anytime, anywhere, anyone. No matter how dark circumstances may be, we can always look up. Despite the claims of negative voices, a new world may float down into your life. Right now. Walk in expectancy. As railroad crossings remind us, Stop. Look. Listen. Everywhere, every moment. Our California experience also became a fountainhead of The Timberline Letter. Because life’s soundtrack can swell from a lone piccolo to a full orchestra, we invite everyone to expect change. Look beyond the present, the parochial, and the parched. What do you have to lose? Do you think you will lie on your deathbed, wishing you had worked longer hours, obeyed more rules, conformed to more traditions, or tried to seize more control? Einstein asked one of the great questions: “Is the universe a friendly place?” You have the power to live the answer. Deeply, faithfully, eternally. The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
May 27

California Dreamin'

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May 21

What Goes Around Comes Around

Written and Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy Our family cautiously approached the battle-scarred property. Giant oaks leaned precariously close to the house. The forest of longleaf pines had been ripped apart and scattered like a box of toothpicks. But the awe I felt for Mother Nature paled in comparison to the fear I had for Ron, the owner of this house. I knew the towering Vietnam veteran would never hurt me, but I also knew he could go scorched earth toward anyone he thought might be a looter. And he didn’t know who we might be; he had not seen me since I was a child. We rapped on the screen door. Ron doesn’t hide behind an iron gate—he is the iron gate. The door opened to two of my favorite people on the planet. Not my aunt and uncle, technically, but so closely tied through blood and belief that our families had bonded years ago. The last time they saw me, I was a kid. Now I came bearing a husband, four kids, chainsaws and loppers. Hurricane Helene had dealt a violent blow to south Georgia. Our task was not an easy one. Cutting down trees and building up burn piles were the least of my concerns. What concerned me was the knowledge that Ron, at 78, would not stop working unless my husband David did. How were we going to clear timber and brush without Ron working harder than his health could tolerate? Less than two weeks prior, Jeannette had gone through knee replacement surgery, but she still woke early, determined to cook breakfast. It was hard to gift them with a full work crew. On Sunday morning, they insisted on taking us out for a meal. Not a minor cost for a family of six. I was uncomfortable, but I feared declining their generosity more than I feared straining their fixed income. Back at the house that night, all the kids slept with bellies full of banana pudding and the bounty from the all-you-can-eat buffet. Us four adults sat around the kitchen table, silently negotiating how much giving and kindness we could live with. We wanted to complete another day of work; David couldn’t stand to return home with so much undone. I also knew Ron and Jeannette didn’t want to accept more help. So, I tapped the table and declared, “Look; we are all uncomfortable. We didn’t want you paying for our meal, and you didn’t want us working on your yard. So, I think we all just need to be okay with being uncomfortable.” A group chuckle revealed surrender by both sides. The next day, after working for several hours, we began loading our van. Ron and Jeannette gathered our kids and thanked each by name. The tears in Ron’s eyes added to his heroic stature. As we drove home, I told the kids the story of how, when I was an infant and my family of seven had no money for food, Ron and Jeannette filled our refrigerator and counters while we were away from our house. What goes around comes around. A life lived around our loved ones has a way of repeating itself. Within that framework, reciprocity is not a duty, but a natural result of loving relationships. As the Bible explains that cycle of blessing, “... give according to what you have, not what you don’t have. Of course, I don’t mean your giving should make life easy for others and hard for yourselves. I only mean that there should be some equality. Right now you have plenty and can help those who are in need. Later, they will have plenty and can share with you when you need it. In this way, things will be equal.” – 2 Corinthians 8:12-14 (NLT). The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe
May 20

What Goes Around, Comes Around

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Think Clearer, See Further, Hear Deeper. timberlineletter.substack.com

Creator

Produced by Ed Chinn, Narrated by Kara Lea Kennedy
Years Active

2025 - 2026
Episodes

84
Rating

Clean
Copyright

© Cool River Pub, Inc.
Show Website

The Timberline Letter