The Solace of the Canyon Waters

Some fragmented thoughts on winter sun, the consolation of desert waters, the witness of hovering hummingbirds, and new beginnings

Saturday, January 20
Los Angeles, Calif.

More a postcard than a letter this week: We’re in California, a spectacularly well-timed trip, given that temperatures have been well below zero in Michigan and have been in the 60s and 70s here. 

Fozzie is staying with his beloved sitter, Stephanie, who takes such good care of him whenever we’re traveling. The other day, Steph sent us this photo, which is quintessentially Fozzie. It’s also highly relatable; I’ve already laugh-sobbed internally at the memories of times I’ve found myself in similar positions. Just me? 

I’m curious to know what you might see in the Fozz’s predicament. Your thoughts? Or even better: your captions for this photo?

We came to California for respite, and we have found it in both expected ways—time with friends, the warm sunshine on our skin, wonderful meals—as well as some surprising ones. On Wednesday and Thursday mornings, we hiked Murray and Tahquitz Canyons, near Palm Springs. Over the ages, snowmelt and rainfall have combined their strength to carve these deep gashes in the granite of the San Jacinto Mountains. 

In a desert, water is such good news: good news for the regal California fan palms that stood sentry in the canyon, some wearing full-length grass skirts; good news for the abundant birdlife, which chirped and tweeted all around us as we walked; good news for the Agua Caliente band of Cahuilla Indians, who have lived in and around these canyons for centuries and still steward these lands today. 

I didn’t expect the sound of the water, though, to offer me such solace. For the first part of the Murray Canyon hike, I heard a steady, gentle trickle, soft and light, as if the water were dancing over the rocks. A few minutes upstream, we came upon a part of the stream where, beneath the surface, there must have been deeper pools. As the water poured down from the higher places, it hit more sonorous tones—gurgles and glugs, even some groans and moans. I stopped and listened for a long moment. Is it too weird to say that I felt the waters’ compassion? It seemed as if the waters were saying to me: We can hold more than you think. Let us carry something for you. 

The next day, in Tahquitz Canyon, consolation came embodied in the hummingbirds. All around us, we heard them singing, and soon, we could see them hovering, wings awhir, amidst the flowering chuparosa, shrubs with red and coral-colored blooms full of nectar. My people have traditionally seen hummingbirds as harbingers of good fortune and messengers of joy. I hope that’s true.

We’re heading to the airport shortly to head north to the Bay Area. I’ll be preaching tomorrow at the First Presbyterian Church in Berkeley. Throughout January, the congregation is working its way through a series called Questions We’re Afraid to Ask. I was assigned the question, “What if I lose my faith?” Lucky me! We’ll be looking at the Parable of the Sower.

I’m only half-joking when I say, “Lucky me.”  This isn’t just a one-time preaching gig. In addition to my ongoing work at Crosspointe Church in North Carolina, I will be serving First Pres Berkeley as its parish associate for storytelling and witness. I’ll preach a couple of times a year and help out here and there—maybe an online Bible study? And this lovely congregation, led by senior pastor Charlene Han Powell, a dear friend of mine, will come alongside me, like desert-canyon waters and faithful hummingbirds, to offer accountability, support, and encouragement of the work I’m already doing in the world. I am so grateful.

That’s the news from here. If you’re in the Bay Area, please join us for worship in person tomorrow at 10 a.m. PT; wherever you might be, you can also join us online. 

All my best,
Jeff

p.s. We’re still going to be living in Grand Rapids, by the way. No plans to move.