What Montana taught this Southern storyteller about shutting up



Every place has its own language. I don’t mean accents or vocabulary. I mean the unwritten rules that tell you how people see the world. I grew up in the South, where sarcasm is practically a sacrament and no good story should suffer from a shortage of embellishment.

Montana speaks differently.

Even the humor has a Montana accent: direct and to the point.

People here don’t waste words. They tell you what they know and leave the rest alone. We’ve been coming to this valley since the 1980s and have lived here full-time for more than seven years, long enough to know I’ll never stop learning Montana.

One of the first pieces of advice I received was, “Drive at the speed you’re comfortable slamming into the ditch at.” Direct and to the point, particularly in winter.

Our tiny town used to consist of a post office and a combination bar and restaurant. Then the bar burned down. That left the post office as our social center, where neighbors catch up on the news, solve the world’s problems, and occasionally create new ones.

On my way to Bozeman, I stopped in. After chatting with friends by the postal counter, I said, “I’d better get going. I need to pick up Gracie’s prescriptions.” Without missing a beat, our postmaster asked, “Would you mind picking up some Imodium for me?” The group chuckled as I said, “Sure.” Even the humor has a Montana accent: direct and to the point.

A few days later, Montana spoke again. Our cabin can be seen from the county road, nearly 10 miles from pavement. My father-in-law’s house lies above us, hidden among the pines. People don’t end up there by accident.

Our son Gray was cleaning his grandfather’s garage when an older pickup came winding through the trees. It stopped when the occupants spotted him. The older passenger leaned out the window. He was missing enough teeth that you noticed before he finished his first sentence.

“I’m looking for Don,” he said.

“There isn’t a Don here,” Gray replied.

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The man muttered that it had been a long time since he had been up this way and figured he had gotten turned around.

Then both men got out of the truck. The younger man was every bit of six-foot-four. Gray felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. His pistol was nearby. With bears and mountain lions plentiful around us, that was nothing unusual. But Gray never reached for it. He simply eased back a step and watched. The older man seemed perturbed. The younger man said nothing.

Without another word, they swapped places in the truck and eased back down the driveway toward the national forest. Gray immediately called and said, “Dad, I think they may have been casing the place.” I called the sheriff’s office to see if they had heard about these fellows. After dispatch took the message, I watched the truck come down from the forest and idle on the road in front of our cabin. Then it headed down the mountain. Soon afterward, the deputy called. I repeated the story.

The line went quiet. Finally, he said, “Well ... we’ve got a fellow who goes around looking for Don ...”

I waited. “But he’s usually over in the Pony area.” Pony sits on the other side of the mountain. Same county. Different side of the range.

Another pause. “I wonder if it could be the same guy.”

Every Southern instinct in me wanted to go full Bob Newhart. “Y-you ... you think?”

Inwardly, my Southern commentary was still running. How many “looking for Don” fellows do you have around here? Is this some kind of franchise, and has this guy wandered out of his territory?

Instead, I held my tongue and answered in my best broken Montanan. “You know ... it might be.”

The deputy happened to be driving up our road and offered to intercept them. Since they were already heading down the mountain, I declined. “We’ll handle it if they come back,” I said.

No lecture about escalation. No reminder to stay inside. No warning to leave everything to trained professionals.

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Just one word. “OK.” Direct and to the point.

After 35 years in Nashville, I never imagined telling a deputy, “We’ll handle it,” or hearing him agree. He assumed I could exercise good judgment. If I needed help, he’d come. Until then, he trusted me to handle my own place.

That economy of words defines the humor, the advice, and the lifestyle. As another election season pulls us into its riptide, we could use a little more of that.

I’ve watched people move here because they wanted to live in Montana, only to try to make it more like the place they left. I’ve found it’s better to let Montana change me. Out here, help isn’t just around the corner. You prepare, pay attention, fix what you can, and exercise good judgment because the nearest help may be 30 miles away. You also help your neighbor, especially if Imodium is involved.

And if those two fellows ever wander back up to our place? Well, after 35 years in Music City, I’ll know exactly what to tell them.

They’re looking for Don in all the wrong places.

'Independent' Montana Senate Hopeful Seth Bodnar Backed Study Abroad Program Funded by Chinese Influence Operation, Ignoring Warnings

Seth Bodnar, the independent U.S. Senate candidate in Montana, has talked tough about China on the campaign trail. But while leading the University of Montana, Bodnar rebuffed concerns from Congress about the university's collaboration with an organization tied to Chinese foreign influence operations.

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Why I played ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah’ at a funeral



The text from my friend contained one of the stranger questions I have ever received from a family planning a funeral: “Do you know ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah’?”

I stared at my phone, a bit wild-eyed. My first instinct was to reply, “Why do you ask?” Instead, I simply wrote, “Yes.”

In that sanctuary, the music served something greater than itself.

His mother had died after a long battle with Parkinson’s. The song was one of her favorites, and the family had sung it with her for years. They hoped I could play it during a slideshow at her memorial service.

I have been a pianist longer than I have been a caregiver, which is saying something. Over the years, families have invited me to play at hundreds of funerals, and I never take that invitation lightly.

As a preacher’s kid, I began as cheap labor for my father’s church: Sunday services, weddings, funerals. I did it all. I no longer play weddings unless enormous amounts of money or extraordinary affection are involved. There is simply too much drama. Funerals are different. If possible, I still play them.

A grieving family does not need entertainment or musical pomp. They need someone willing to serve the moment. Music should give grief room to breathe while gently lifting people’s eyes, even if only an inch.

That assignment becomes considerably more demanding when the requested song is “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

I could have treated it as a novelty, played the familiar tune, collected a few smiles, and moved on. But this family was not asking for a joke. They were asking me to honor their mother.

A funeral is one of the few remaining places in American life where we must confront the difference between entertainment and reverence. Our culture can turn nearly anything into content, spectacle, or argument. A family’s grief deserves better.

My father had died not long before this service. He was a pastor who understood ceremony. He did not confuse reverence with stiffness or ceremony with showmanship. He knew some moments deserve the very best we can bring to them. His lessons sat close as I worked on the arrangement.

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Before moving to Montana, I lived and played in Nashville. Nashville taught me polish. Montana reminded me of intimacy. In a small rural sanctuary, every note sits close to the people who need it.

I did not try to make “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” sacred. The song was not sacred. The moment was.

A family’s love was sacred. A life well lived was sacred. So was the faith that endured years of Parkinson’s and the long goodbye that accompanied it.

I arranged the piece more slowly than usual, but not sorrowfully; tenderly, but not timidly. I added a few chords no one expects to hear in “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” My wife calls them my “non-sanctified chords.”

When I played it for her at home, she wiped her eyes. “You played it so respectfully,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

I called one of the daughters and asked for the exact length of the slideshow. Then I shaped the arrangement to fit it.

At the service, the pastor introduced the slideshow: “It is set to one of her favorite songs, ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah,’ played by Peter Rosenberger.”

After decades at the piano, I had never received an introduction quite like that. Chuckles rolled through the sanctuary. I understood. Then the pictures began.

Childhood. Marriage. Ranch life. Children. Grandchildren.

As her life unfolded across the screen, the novelty disappeared. The room settled into stillness. A playful song associated with happy memories in her home began carrying the weight of a family’s love and loss.

I timed the final chord to the last photograph of her face. For a moment, no one moved. The chuckles had given way to misty eyes. That familiar little tune had slipped past everyone’s defenses and carried something deeper than anyone expected.

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Christians do not pretend that Parkinson’s is beautiful or that death is merely another happy chapter. Scripture calls death the last enemy. But it also declares that Christ has defeated it. For those in Christ, suffering does not receive the final word. Neither does Parkinson’s. Neither does the grave.

The song was not the gospel, and I did not pretend it was. But it carried the memory of a woman who had sung it through years of suffering. In that sanctuary, the music served something greater than itself.

My father’s death still weighed heavily on me as I played. Perhaps that helped me understand the assignment. Even amid our own grief, we can offer the best of what we have to someone walking through theirs.

Sometimes grief calls for a great hymn. Sometimes it calls for silence. And every now and then, it calls for “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

Because for those who belong to Christ, everything really is … satisfactual.

12-year-old girl hailed as a 'hero' amid horror of 'hermit' step-uncle's Montana massacre



A 12-year-old girl – who was among eight family members gunned down in a Montana massacre by a relative – has been hailed as a "hero" for trying to save her loved ones.

A man shot and killed eight family members, including four children, as they gathered for dinner Sunday at a home near Billings, Montana. The mass shooting occurred weeks after his parents reportedly asked him to move out of their house.

'There were many red flags, and many people spoke out. No one listened.'

Police said the suspect killed his grandmother, his parents, his younger sister, and four children.

NBC News reported that the gunman shot and killed the homeowners: 73-year-old Dana Smith and 72-year-old Barbara Smith.

Also killed in the mass shooting were their daughter, 39-year-old Megan Ireland-Ghekiere, as well as her two children and two stepchildren, 15-year-old Landon Ghekiere, 12-year-old Charlotte Ghekiere, 13-year-old Owen Ireland, and 7-year-old Chloe Ireland, according to authorities.

Evelyn Smith – who was Dana's 92-year-old mother and described as the "family matriarch" by interim Yellowstone County Sheriff Kent O’Donnell — did not live at the house but was in attendance for the Sunday dinner and was among the victims killed.

Brad Ireland — the ex-husband of Megan Ireland-Ghekiere — told the Associated Press that the suspected shooter was 44-year-old Alan Smith.

Police confirmed that Smith was the older brother of Megan Ireland-Ghekiere.

Ireland said that Smith had lived in his parents' home for years.

Ireland described Alan Smith as a "hermit," and added, "No one knew what he did in there 24/7."

Ireland noted that Smith's parents asked him to move out a couple of weeks ago, but he returned to the home on Sunday and went on a shooting spree.

Police said Smith arrived at the home at approximately 5:49 p.m., just 11 minutes before neighbors reported hearing what they believed were fireworks.

At 6:02 p.m., police dispatchers received a call from a "female" inside the house, and deputies from the Yellowstone County Sheriff's Office arrived at the crime scene around 6:10 p.m., NBC News reported.

When law enforcement arrived at the home, they "confronted the suspect in the front yard, where he retreated into the house," O'Donnell stated.

The Associated Press reported that officers arrived "just before the house was completely engulfed in flames."

O'Donnell said more "gunshots were heard within the household" before the suspected shooter went to the rear of the property.

At about 6:13 p.m., a deputy "heard a final shot, which was broken away from the rest of the shots," O'Donnell noted.

At around 6:22 p.m., officers "made entrance into the backyard," where they discovered a male with a gunshot wound and began lifesaving measures on him, O'Donnell added.

"At this time, it wasn’t known that he was actually the suspect of all this," O'Donnell continued. "He was just a person down, and law enforcement did what they're trained to do. They got him out of the hot zone and provided what first aid they could."

Police said the suspect was transported to the hospital, where he was pronounced dead upon arrival. Investigators confirmed that the suspect had suffered a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Billings Fire Department Chief Matt Hoppel said firefighters battled the blaze until around 1 a.m. on Monday.

Authorities noted that it took so long to extinguish the fire because the house is located outside Billings city limits on county land, where fire hydrants are not mandatory.

O'Donnell said, "They had to haul in truckloads of water, set up a temporary tank and pump out of that tank. So the fire suppression portion of this was very, very difficult.”

Jeff Stovall, a spokesperson for the Billings Police Department, told the Associated Press that investigators also faced challenges due to the structural instability of the home, which had burned down to its foundation.

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Adam Ghekiere, the widower of Megan Ireland-Ghekiere, was not at the home during the attack but learned about the active shooting over a dispatch radio.

The Associated Press reported that Ghekiere called each family member before he "raced across town to the Smith home."

The Smith house was on fire when Ghekiere arrived, according to the AP.

The Associated Press reported that two hours after arriving at the crime scene, Ghekiere learned his wife, two children, and two stepchildren had been killed.

Ghekiere said of his brother-in-law, "Monster isn't even enough to describe what he did."

Ghekiere stated that police later confirmed his daughter, Charlotte, made the 911 call from inside the residence.

Jennifer Mercer, a neighbor and family friend, told NBC News, "Charlotte was the hero that dialed 911. She tried to save her family."

Mercer added, "She lived by her favorite quote, 'I love you more.'"

According to CBS News, Brad Ireland said of Alan Smith, "There were many red flags, and many people spoke out. No one listened."

O'Donnell said the Yellowstone County Sheriff's Office "had not been called to this residence before, and we had not had any prior contact with the suspect."

A search of criminal records in Montana and Washington by the Associated Press found that Alan Smith had never been arrested or charged with a crime.

A GoFundMe campaign launched on behalf of Landon Ghekiere and Charlotte Ghekiere raised nearly $95,000 as of Friday morning.

The crowdfunding listing reads:

Landon was just 15 years old and preparing to begin his sophomore year at Senior High School. He was a loving, caring young man who was always willing to lend a hand to his family and neighbors. He was looking forward to getting his driver’s license this week and was a patient, protective, and loving big brother.

Charlotte was 12 and preparing to begin seventh grade. Funny, precocious, and adorable—with just the right amount of stubborn—Charlotte had an angelic smile and loved posing for pictures. She especially loved exploring the world around her, turning over rocks to look for bugs. Oh, how she loved her bugs!

A separate GoFundMe campaign to help support Adam Ghekiere has raised nearly $130,000.

Ghekiere said, "We are so grateful for the prayers, the love, the support that we're getting from the nation."

Authorities are still piecing together an official motive for the tragic mass shooting.

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He refused helicopter rescue after suffering gruesome injury on Montana's highest mountain — what he did next was incredible



A man set out to scale Montana's tallest mountain, but he suffered a gruesome injury along the way. Yet still, the man miraculously hiked 10 miles down the mountain.

KTLA-TV reported that 32-year-old David Cifaldi and two hiking companions were crossing Montana’s ominous Froze-to-Death Plateau and approaching the summit of Granite Peak on the morning of July 20.

'A couple of inches the other way, and this would be a different story.'

The Mountain Guides, a hiking website, said that Granite Peak is Montana’s highest summit with an elevation of 12,803 feet.

"This formidable mountain is located in the heart of the remote and scenic Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, just north of Yellowstone National Park," according to the Mountain Guides, which noted, "Granite Peak is considered by many to be the most difficult high-point summit after Denali."

Cifaldi suffered a grisly injury from a freak hiking accident during his arduous trek: He was impaled by his own steel-tipped trekking pole.

The Associated Press reported that a 44-inch steel-tipped pole "passed through the flesh beneath Cifaldi’s left arm, missing any vital organs, and protruded from his back."

Cifaldi proclaimed that he needed to get off the mountain.

"I was like, 'We've got to get off this mountain.' And they're both like, 'I don’t know about that,'" Cifaldi told the AP.

Cifaldi joked, "'Tis but a flesh wound."

Cifaldi, a wound care nurse in Montana, and his friends considered getting a helicopter to rescue him on the mountain. However, they decided that a helicopter rescue would be very expensive.

"Search and rescue coming to help you is free. The flight's not," Cifaldi explained.

"That was a factor in me deciding to self-rescue," Cifaldi continued. "But the fact that I had two experienced great friends with me and we had the ability to contact search and rescue if something went wrong made that a lot more of an easy decision."

The quick-thinking Cifaldi stated, "I think my nurse brain clicked on. As soon as I was able to self-assess and establish that this was not life-threatening right now, I was pretty convinced I was going to get off that mountain under my own power."

(WARNING: Graphic video)

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The group utilized a satellite-based communication device to inform local authorities that they planned to rescue Cifaldi themselves.

Stillwater County Search and Rescue team commander Ty Williams told the Associated Press that the first emergency call about Cifaldi was received at around 9:44 a.m. on July 20.

"There was no danger to anybody else. He didn’t want our help, and so we’re not going to essentially violate his rights or go against his wishes by forcing our help on him," Williams stated.

However, the impaled hiker would have to hike approximately 10 miles and descend about 5,000 feet to travel to a trailhead where Cifaldi’s friend had parked a vehicle, according to the Associated Press.

A GoFundMe campaign launched to help Cifaldi financially said, "David navigated the plateau's snowfields and boulder fields, made his way down past Mystic Lake, and reached the trailhead entirely under his own power — never once complaining, staying in remarkably high spirits. Near Mystic Lake, he even asked one of us to hike ahead and warn other hikers, so no children would have to see the wound."

It took the group more than six hours to get to the friend's vehicle, and then they transported Cifaldi to a local clinic.

Doctors at the clinic informed Cifaldi that he would need more advanced medical treatment when he returned to his hometown of Billings, Montana. The AP reported that Cifaldi's friends drove him for treatment at the St. Vincent Regional Hospital — where Cifaldi works as a nurse.

Doctors were able to remove the pole from Cifaldi.

The friend with the vehicle, Jesse Ross, credited Cifaldi’s confidence for conquering the challenge of hiking down the mountain with such a severe injury.

"The only reason it was possible at all was his confidence," Ross told the AP. "Who are we to say anything? He’s the medical person. Our job is just to support at that point."

Cifaldi declared, "I think 99 times out of a hundred I would make the same decision."

The GoFundMe campaign, which raised nearly $10,000, said Cifaldi may require surgery, missed time from work, and now faces "significant medical bills for an injury that happened while doing something he loves."

Cifaldi told KSL-TV, "I feel very lucky. A couple of inches the other way, and this would be a different story."

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How one lowered flag carried me home



McAllister, Montana, does not take long to drive through. We have a post office, a cabinet shop, and an empty lot where the old bar and restaurant once stood.

Yet there it was. The American flag hung at half-staff.

Somewhere between the Carolina foothills and a tiny town in southwest Montana, I was reminded that no matter how far life carries us, the places that formed us never quite let us go.

It was not for someone from Montana. It was for a boy from upstate South Carolina.

Standing in the parking lot of that tiny post office, I found myself thinking that southwest Montana might as well be another country from the red clay, pines, and dogwoods of northwest South Carolina.

Yet one lowered flag carried me back more than 2,000 miles, leaving me with an unexpected ache for both places.

Lindsey Graham’s passing felt different. There had been no long illness, no farewell tour, no gradual retreat from public life. He worked until the end. One day, he was in the middle of the nation’s business. The next, the flag in our little Montana town flew at half-staff for a man whose life began just a few miles from mine.

Washington knew him as a senator. The world knew him as a fixture on Sunday morning news programs, in committee hearings, and on diplomatic missions halfway around the globe.

Upstate South Carolina knew him simply as Lindsey.

Our paths crossed long before I could have imagined standing beside a lowered flag in a small Montana town thinking about him.

He grew up in Central. I grew up in nearby Anderson. We may even have been born in the same hospital.

When Lindsey first ran for Congress, my sister worked on his campaign. His district included my parents’ home. For a time, his sister lived only a few doors from them. Years later, one of my four brothers worked closely with him through the State Department on matters involving Qatar, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and other countries.

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The first time I met Lindsey personally was at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where my wife, Gracie, had been invited to sing for wounded warriors. We shared dinner that evening with Sen. Chuck Grassley (R-Iowa) and his wife, along with Montana’s Conrad Burns.

At one point, Lindsey laughed and said he and I could carry on a conversation without anybody needing subtitles.

After meeting several members of my family over the years, he ran into my parents somewhere back home, shook his head with that familiar grin, and asked, “How many of y’all are there?”

That was Lindsey. For all the demands placed on him, he remembered people.

We disagreed on more than a few things over the years. Some of those disagreements mattered. But disagreement is not the same thing as dismissal.

Somewhere along the way, we have forgotten that.

In an era when too many public careers seem measured by growing fortunes and lucrative opportunities after leaving office, Lindsey’s modest estate told a different story. Whatever history ultimately concludes about every vote he cast or every position he took, it is difficult to argue that he entered public life to enrich himself.

He seemed to take the title literally.

It was public service in the truest sense of the phrase.

Whether one agreed with him or not, Lindsey’s work ethic was undeniable. He left behind a reputation far larger than his estate.

Lindsey Graham died with his boots on.

Only hours earlier, he was still in motion — meeting with allies, working with foreign leaders, talking with colleagues, and carrying the responsibilities that had defined most of his adult life.

Then, almost in an instant, the meetings ended, the phones stopped ringing, and the man who had spent a lifetime helping shape history took his place within it.

Flags across America have been lowered. Soon, they will be raised again. The mail will be sorted. Ranchers will stop by the post office. Life will continue, as it always does.

But standing there in the parking lot of our little post office, I closed my eyes and sighed.

I was not thinking about Washington or the halls of power. I was thinking about upstate South Carolina.

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Photo courtesy of Peter Rosenberger

I was thinking about the red clay my mother could never keep her five sons from tracking into the house. Boiled peanuts from a roadside stand. A sticky, hot Carolina afternoon with pine trees swaying just enough to remind you there was a breeze after all.

I was thinking about familiar voices, familiar roads, and a local boy from Central who somehow found himself helping shape the course of a nation without ever quite losing the cadence of home.

The United States lost a man who served first in uniform, then in the House of Representatives, and finally in the Senate.

South Carolina lost a son.

And somewhere between the Carolina foothills and a tiny town in southwest Montana, I was reminded that no matter how far life carries us, the places that formed us never quite let us go.

I suspect Lindsey Graham never heard of McAllister, Montana.

But that flag outside a tiny post office quietly testified that McAllister, along with countless other towns across America, paused to honor him.

Consider the lilies — and one old Montana fir



Tucked into a draw on our Montana property stands a Douglas fir that a forester estimated to be more than 600 years old.

It grows beside a creek, sheltered by surrounding hills from the worst of the wind. The draw stretches back toward the forest and up the mountain, while the opposite hillside rises steeply above it.

God never promised His people a life without storms. He promised His presence in the midst of them. Still, we are tempted to believe the world has somehow spun beyond His control.

It is an easy place to linger.

Long before my father-in-law bought this property, others recognized that. Arrowheads and stone tools have been found nearby over the years. With fresh water, shelter from the wind, and a commanding view of the valley, it was a natural place to camp.

I sometimes wonder who sat beneath those branches centuries ago.

When friends and family visit, I often take them to see the tree. Some stare in wonder. Others shrug.

My father-in-law never shrugged.

He was so taken with the old fir that he made a simple wooden sign and named it “Legacy Tree.”

The name stuck.

Whenever I stand there, I find myself reaching out to touch its weathered trunk.

Sometimes, it helps to touch something living that has survived.

Six centuries have a way of putting things in perspective.

When this tree was young, Christopher Columbus was still trying to persuade Queen Isabella to finance an uncertain voyage across the Atlantic.

While Martin Luther challenged the church in Wittenberg, the tree quietly added another ring beneath its bark.

It stood while America’s founders pledged “their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.”

It was already centuries old before anyone called this land Montana.

Generations passed beneath its branches. Empires rose and fell. Men walked on the moon beneath the same sky that has watched over this tree for more than six centuries.

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Stevanovicigor/Getty Images

History hurried by. The tree kept growing.

It survived fire, lightning, drought, insects, brutal winters, heavy snow, fierce winds, and everything else the Montana mountains could throw at it.

Fallen trees lie scattered across the property. Some finally yielded to age. Others were struck by lightning or brought down by wind and snow.

Why this Douglas fir still stands while others do not is a mystery known only to its creator.

One day, it too will fall.

Until then, it stands because God sustains it.

Jesus told us to consider the lilies of the field and the birds of the air. He pointed to ordinary things people passed every day and used them to reveal extraordinary truths about His Father’s care.

Standing beneath this old fir, I have begun to wonder whether that invitation extends beyond flowers and sparrows.

If our heavenly Father clothes lilies that bloom for only a season;

if He watches over birds that few people notice;

if He has sustained this tree through six centuries of Montana winters, lightning, and fire;

how much more will He sustain His children?

That question lands differently today than it did a few years ago.

We live in an age of perpetual anxiety. Every news cycle insists catastrophe is moments away. Every political fight is described as the final chance to save civilization. Social media rewards outrage.

Fear has become a business model.

Wars rage overseas. Political divisions deepen at home. Each day seems to bring another reason to worry about tomorrow.

Scripture repeatedly tells us, “Do not be afraid.”

The world profits by feeding our fears. Scripture answers by reminding us who reigns.

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A-Digit/Getty Images

God never promised His people a life without storms. He promised His presence in the midst of them.

Still, we are tempted to believe the world has somehow spun beyond His control.

We all endure our own Montana winters and summers filled with lightning: illness, grief, financial strain, broken relationships, uncertain futures, seasons when the wind seems relentless and hope feels scarce.

Standing beneath the old fir, I hear Christ’s words with fresh ears.

Consider the lilies. Consider the birds. And perhaps, if you will permit one Montana addition to the list, consider an old Douglas fir.

Sometimes, it helps to touch something living that has survived.

Each time I leave that quiet draw, I remember that the God who has faithfully sustained that tree throughout its existence has faithfully sustained me throughout mine.

The headlines will keep shouting.

God will remain faithful.

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