The Glowing Scroll

Highway 40 is an engineering marvel, a four-lane thoroughfare running from California to the east coast, with rest stops all along the way. When I needed to drive to North Carolina this summer, I contemplated all the various routes I might take; Highway 40 was the obvious choice. It cuts a line as flat and straight as humanly possible through the high plains of New Mexico and Texas, the rolling hills of the Ozarks and on into the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee. Meanwhile, along the western portion from California to Oklahoma, you can still see old Route 66 snaking alongside the highway, like a silent, forgotten companion. Probably most motorists don't even know it's there, or don't notice. But once, that little road was the main route for Americans heading west, including the Okies escaping the dust bowl.   Bobby Troupe immortalized it in a catchy song: Won't you get hip to this timely tip When you make that California trip Get your kicks on Route 66 Lots of...

During the nineteenth century, millions of rural workers flocked to the cities of Britain, Europe and America to take industrial jobs. The result was the poverty, disease and overcrowded slums portrayed by Charles Dickens and other chroniclers of the times. But at least the migrations were voluntary—more or less. Now, China—learning nothing from its own history or that of other nations—is forcing a migration on a scale unimaginable. According to this article by Ian Johnson in the New York Times , it plans to push 250 million rural residents off their land and into cities. Why? Because China's central planners think it's a good idea. The objective is to wean these ignorant peasants off their archaic lifestyle of subsistence farming and turn them into consumers —to spur domestic demand for Chinese products. What a great idea! Never mind that the peasants may not want to abandon their lives and land for some sterile 20-story tower in a faraway city. We'r...

My tortoise and I have a reciprocal relationship: I provide her with the foods of her choice (green and red lettuce, bananas, other fruit when available), make sure she's warm at night, clean her box, and put her in the yard during the day. And she teaches me about God. It's not just the exquisite design of her reptile body. Although that is a wonder in itself. Her shell is a variegated brown, to help her blend in with most vegetation. The top of it is segmented in raised mounds which could easily be mistaken for stones. The edges are scalloped and veined, in a perfect imitation of dried leaves. So God has equipped this most vulnerable of creatures with a wonderful disguise. When she retreats into her shell, as she does at the slightest hint of threat, only her head is vulnerable. So she instinctively wedges herself head-first against vertical surfaces such as walls or fences for protection. She can happily remain like this for hours or days. But it's the relationship...

Here's the best description I've read yet of the Lighthouse Ranch, where I spent my infancy as a Christian believer—complete with a cast of original characters, who are all my friends. By Heidi Walters of the North Coast Journal: The Light on the Bluff Photo by Gary Todoroff

So, I visited Centinela Prison last weekend with the Faith Community Prison Ministry team. It was a bittersweet trip, as I had been hoping to attend a reunion in the mountains that weekend with a bunch of old friends from the Jesus Movement. But then I realized I had a scheduling conflict. I had to go with my first commitment. It's a three-hour drive from Ontario to the depths of the Imperial Valley (depths, literally—it's 50 feet below sea level). From the bleak, dry squalor of the lower desert I could look up directly to the west and see the verdant 6,000-foot peaks of the Laguna Mountains, where the reunion was happening. Oh well. As it turned out, the prisoners turned the tables on us. We went there to minister, and we did: Janetta shared her incredible testimony of how God enabled her to get a kidney transplant against all odds. And Javier talked about his former life as an inmate, gang member and addict—and how God delivered him. And of course, there was music. ...

A few years ago I bought my wife a tortoise as a gift. Why? A fit of madness, I guess. Predictably, I wound up being the caretaker of this reptile, which will now be a burden to my family for the next 100 years or so. Anyway, I began to absorb some lessons about how God relates to us from this phlegmatic little creature, which my wife named Lulu. Lulu is inherently vulnerable, being small, docile, and extremely slow. Her only defense from predators is to retreat into her shell at the first hint of a threat. Sudden movement, noise, even a change in light will provoke this reflex. This makes her hard to approach. So instead of trying to come close to her , I’ve learned to pick her up from the back and bring her close to me . Somehow, this doesn’t provoke the defensive response: Suddenly I’m in her face, but she’s not freaking out. God has often done a similar thing with me; I wasn’t seeking Him and didn’t see Him coming, but He moved me around without my knowledge till suddenly the...

Once I went on Google Earth and tried to find the place where I used to live in the woods of northern California. My old digs weren’t near any major cities or landmarks, so I found myself scrolling over endless miles of nondescript wilderness on the computer screen. I couldn’t find it, and finally gave up. It was a lot like the dreams I have, where I’m flying over miles of terrain at night, searching for something or someone, though it’s never quite clear. Usually my dreams are little dramas that involve me trying to accomplish something, and feeling frustration and angst over not being able to get it done. In other words, they’re a commentary on my life. I think dreams are always about something. Don’t you?