Into the Belly of the Woods

an opportunity for faith to form in the dark

Hey there reader. I’ve removed the paywall from the post below but, for the foreseeable future, Thurdays will be for paid subscribers only. Enjoy today’s post and if you like what you read and want access to it weekly, you’re welcome to become a paid subscriber if you like.

I tell my subscribers this space is meant to function like a quiet back porch at a bustling house party. Sometimes you just need a place to let your thoughts unwind or have a slow conversation, ya know?

My writing here is my personal practice of finding the redemptive work of Jesus Christ in every aspect of my life—in the hard stuff, the good stuff, the boring stuff. He’s there, I can show you.

Whether you’re reading this from your inbox or happened upon this post in the wild lands of Substack, welcome to The Redemptive! I’m so glad you’re here.

Let’s get into today’s post.

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“I hope some of this is legible. I am v. tired.” J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 166

I tell Jonathan I’m taking Billie (my great dane) to the park. Getting out in frigid weather isn’t my favorite pastime, but I can’t stay indoors all winter. I pull on a thick shirt and knit cap over my head, stuff the van keys in my pocket and clip Billie into her leash and collar. I open the back door to see a smooth sky devoid of clouds. The cold air greets me like a friend, pulling me by the hand in an invitation to spend an hour or two with the trees, the crinkle of decomposing leaves, the flicker of mockingbirds in the meadowgrass. “Nevermind the chill,” it says, “it’s beautiful out here.”

I take the drive to the park and shiver slightly when I open the van door. Billie is waiting like a coiled spring in the back. Her eyes and ears are perked forward as I strap on her harness. She’s waited all day for this. Once her long line is on, I give her the signal and she hops out. Her nose is magnet to the ground. With some coaxing from me, she’s soon trotting by my side. Great Danes were originally bred to protect estates and hunt wild boar, mine protects my mental health and helps me hunt beauty. I know once we get moving, our hearts will course a river of blood through our limbs and wash away the cold. I feel warmer already. 

The trees where we live are mostly bare now. The remaining leafed oaks have turned russet and quartz. They catch the day’s last light in their palms; the sun scintillating through them like light permeating a cut gem. I’m struck every winter with how the tops of the trees reach, reach, reach, for the sun as it passes beyond the horizon every night. No two lovers on a train station platform ever had a separation so bittersweet. No two lovers were ever more relieved to be reunited at dawn. Stories are everywhere if you have the eyes to see. 

We leave the paved walkway and veer off onto a path that’s been cut through the forest. It declines immediately into the belly of the woods. Northern Flickers are feeding on the ground; their pepper and cream bodies flit into the trees while we pass by. All I can hear is my own breath, the jangle of Billie’s tags and the crack! of a thousand dead leaves tiling the trail underfoot. I was overwhelmed by the stresses of life before I left the house, but now beauty floods my senses, the tempest of my mind placates, my chest expands without effort.

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The past two weeks, both of my kids have been sick. Our routines are out of alignment. I feel out of alignment (and I’m not just talking about needing to book an appointment with the chiropractor, but that too). I’ve confessed to friends how I feel disjointed from myself. I get dressed and don't know who I’m looking at in the mirror. I sit down to write and the blinking cursor taps impatiently on the screen for me to come up with something to say. I want to share the vision I have for the next 5 years but I’m afraid to speak it out loud because what if I have to watch that dream die too?

This isn’t to say I’m miserable. I’m not. I get up everyday and I’m thankful to do the good, hard work of living a simple life. I write before the sun comes up. I make breakfast for the kids and myself. I let the dog out. I feed the cat. I go to therapy for myself and with my husband. I do all the things keeping a house requires. When you’ve spent months and months of your life bedridden and trapped in your own mind, being able to walk on your own two feet and keep your life in order is a precious gift. 

Recently, I’ve been studying the letters of Tolkien for my 2023 Lord of the Rings read-through (hosted here). Having access to a small window into his mind has been both fascinating and validating. He is repeatedly baffled (and delighted) to find people love his written works so deeply. He claims he simply wrote what he did in his fictional world for himself after finding a lack of the kind of mythological literature he wanted to read. He also confesses at times to being weary from the work. One line at the end of Letter 166 made me laugh out loud: 

“I hope some of this is legible. I am v. tired.” J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 166

Here in the middle of November, with only 46 days left in the year, I too am ‘v. tired’ and hope at least some of my words are legible. I hope some of my words reach you where you are; a hand grasping a hand, a heart speaking to a heart.

I glance up at the horizon and catch the rim of the sun as it pours thick and golden into the bowl of the horizon. The sky turns coral. Venus appears in the east. The valley may have said farewell to the sun, but there’s enough light still caught in the sky for us to find our way out of the woods. I tell Billie it’s time to leave and she resumes her position at my side. We trek back up the pathway, out from under the trees, into the open meadow. I don’t remember leaving anything in the forest, but I feel lighter now. 

We’ve still got a ways to go before we reach our van. I still have time not to think, but to let my thoughts settle in their proper place. I pray as I walk, asking God to work in ways unexpected, to weave His redemption into my days the same way trees being stripped bare for a time isn’t a curse but a gift; an opportunity for faith to form in the dark. 

The path gently pulls us back to the van where some would say is then “back to reality” but was this not real too? Are the trees rejoicing in the light of our closest star not real? Are the birds speckling the sky, a volley of black darts, not real? Is the frigid wind hushing the grass to sleep not real? Is the relief my body feels at being met by my Creator in what He made for me to enjoy not real?

It is. 

It is. 

It is. 

We come to the parking lot and I remove Billie’s harness. I pop open the back so she can hop inside. She’s properly worn out now and I’m thinking what a privilege it is to be tired from doing good things. I buckle up, start the van and turn the wheels towards home. I don’t even notice the chill anymore.