Pick a town, and dirt road, and stream, a creek and put it back in time like 100 years ago. Take your mind there, picture that road. Walk down it, kick the dust smell the brush and trees. Look off to the left at the garden in the midst of the trees and fields. See that little chicken house surrounded by roses? Does it bother you there are only a few chickens and they don’t go in the chicken house, but those 7 silly lanky kids do.
Look at those kids, look at the faces. Those faces, 2, 4, 7, 10 years old are serious and weathered, worked, tanned, smooth and so full of joy.
Imagine them standing, waiting, each with a hoe, at least the ones old enough to hold a hoe. They have to be ready. Water is not something that comes from a faucet here, it comes from the man up stream. When he releases the water you better be ready to pull as much as you can into your garden. They need that water. They need as much as they can get because it will feed them. As the water flows at-will toward them, they all move swiftly and divert it into the garden watching as it washes over the soil that covers the seeds that they planted with their own hands. Like the belly of the young child swooshing down the rollercoaster for the first time and feeling the fear that is drenched in the exhilaration followed by the gasp for air, they work hard. This is not a joke, there is no time for frivolity now.
There is no food. Crops are not ready. There is no refrigerator they can run in and open and, without giving one thought to the God that provides, pull out a gallon of milk and drink up. There is no fresh bread they can just grab and make a sandwich "Today is a scary day, a hungry day." They don’t have “too many of them, but they are real.” They all looked at the sun, blazing on them and punishing them and they smile at each other. Only a few hours of chores left.
Finally, they have done what must be done for a family to survive. They don’t, not even one of them, work for themselves and what they might gain, they work for 8 other people, each loving 7 others, 7 precious people to whom they have a connection that will never find an equal. Without a word, the sense, the invisible communication, the plan opens up wide in each of them and at once as if commanded by a superior officer they run and shed the skins of labor. They tear off the shell of concern and they cast them on the floor, and run to the creek. Yes, it is the creek that you all pictured, the creek with the rope and the bank and the mud. With adolescent callouses on their hands they grab at that rope and swing out into the water where so many other beautiful kids from the “neighborhood” are swimming. In this creek, they were rich and ready to live and no one would tell them any different. You see at the creek, there were no castes, no wealth, no possessions, no title and no rules. They were all "Chicken-house, Brown-house kids."
Only four of them are left to tell the stories they lived. My grandma told me and my boys so many stories. I could tell you each of them as if I was there. She could tell a story. She didn’t think so; she didn’t think much of herself at all, but she was a treasure chest. Pregnant with history and adventure and love.
In her life, long, full and filled with trials. She smiled and laughed and loved. She traveled the entire world over and saw sights that were big and wonderful and amazing. She loved a man that was by all accounts bigger than life itself. But somehow nothing compared to the 7 wonders of the world. The 7 wonders that lived in that really little town, way down that little dirt road, close to the little stream, that ran into that creek with that rope and that beautiful mud, that took us back in time like 100 years ago.
Today is a full day, with food and drink and the absolute absence of fear about tomorrow. I sat with her frail fingers wrapped around her glass of water, no ice, as she tells me that “growing old isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.” I sit with her in my little yard, outside my little house, watching my little boys swim in my little pool. And I cry in my heart, thankful, because God let me swing on that swing, and swim in that creek and redirect that water into that garden, that grew into vegetables, that fed 7 wonders of the world and us.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
A Knight to Remember?
“A Knight to Remember” What does that mean? I have been asked that by a few people. In their eyes, I see the squint of mockery. They’d be right if I was the Knight to remember. Heck no, I am not. I’ll tell you if you want to know. No, never mind. I’ll just say this:
There is a great King. There is a Prince who loves the King more than He loves His own life. And there is a people, small creatures, not stately in appearance, nor impressive of speech, but fervent in their desire to serve the Prince and meet the Great King face to face.
There is an evil. It is a gray cloudish power that wraps itself around you and chokes the life out of you. It will at once make you tingle with desire to know more of it and shiver in terror. As you read this, you will feel a harsh but soft, hot breath on the back of your neck. The hair on the body of a human is created to sense the blackness and hatred of the one that rules the shadowy region in which he dwells. In this land, a legion of dark and bitterly hateful spirits live and serve. Their weapons are potent. They wield a sword that cannot be seen by human eyes but can be allowed to sink deep into the flesh of the man piercing all the way to the soul and shadowing the light which makes men grow with belief, hope and love.
But, there is another realm ruled by the Great King and loved fervently by His only Son, the Prince. This world is far more real than the one you sit in today. It is more comforting than the bed you sleep in, or the arms of the mother that holds you. Life wriggles and moves and grows spontaneously, instantly and constantly there. There is Water to drink. There are fish that dance, and have danced, the same dance since they were put there. They wave each fin to move and pump air into themselves, yet not without each intricate motion being first ordered by the Great King Himself. There are birds, such beautiful birds. Pure white, soothing blue, and black with yellow throats, red and light grey. So many different shapes that to describe them would only force images into the mind of the reader which would not do them justice. Long legs, short legs, long beaks, short ones, fat ones, thick feathers or no feathers at all. There are creatures of every kind, small and large, weak and powerful. It is a place all at once calm and bustling with busyness. We don’t live in the world I am describing, but it is the world to which some of us belong.
But, in our present world Death lurks and waits to exact its price from every man.
“Death” was not by order of the King yet the King rules over it and ruled over its conception and creation. It is in itself an enemy of the King; an opposite if you will, yet in no way an equal. I suppose it acts as a servant to the King while acting on its own. It can’t do whatever it wants, but whatever it wants it does. It longs to take from the King His voice, because it is that voice that restrains it. Oh and what a voice it is. Low and powerful but smooth as honey and bellowing at the most soothing end of a scale that does not exist, it really just becomes.
In His most righteous anger He need not raise his voice, for if the King was to raise his voice, one millionth of an octave, in anger, the whole of creation from His world to ours would be changed. Not changed in the sense of changing one’s mind, changed in the sense that NOTHING would remain as it was. No substance would be the same substance, no element the same element. No one would be who he or she was. And no one who was, would “be” again.
And there are three Knights. They are all noble, loving and fair, to all they meet, and to the servant, you will learn of him later. But they are human, bound to both a body of flesh and of rules, neither from which can they escape. And they, and only they, can fight the fight for which they have been conferred the title of Knight.
And there is a Knight to remember.
There is a great King. There is a Prince who loves the King more than He loves His own life. And there is a people, small creatures, not stately in appearance, nor impressive of speech, but fervent in their desire to serve the Prince and meet the Great King face to face.
There is an evil. It is a gray cloudish power that wraps itself around you and chokes the life out of you. It will at once make you tingle with desire to know more of it and shiver in terror. As you read this, you will feel a harsh but soft, hot breath on the back of your neck. The hair on the body of a human is created to sense the blackness and hatred of the one that rules the shadowy region in which he dwells. In this land, a legion of dark and bitterly hateful spirits live and serve. Their weapons are potent. They wield a sword that cannot be seen by human eyes but can be allowed to sink deep into the flesh of the man piercing all the way to the soul and shadowing the light which makes men grow with belief, hope and love.
But, there is another realm ruled by the Great King and loved fervently by His only Son, the Prince. This world is far more real than the one you sit in today. It is more comforting than the bed you sleep in, or the arms of the mother that holds you. Life wriggles and moves and grows spontaneously, instantly and constantly there. There is Water to drink. There are fish that dance, and have danced, the same dance since they were put there. They wave each fin to move and pump air into themselves, yet not without each intricate motion being first ordered by the Great King Himself. There are birds, such beautiful birds. Pure white, soothing blue, and black with yellow throats, red and light grey. So many different shapes that to describe them would only force images into the mind of the reader which would not do them justice. Long legs, short legs, long beaks, short ones, fat ones, thick feathers or no feathers at all. There are creatures of every kind, small and large, weak and powerful. It is a place all at once calm and bustling with busyness. We don’t live in the world I am describing, but it is the world to which some of us belong.
But, in our present world Death lurks and waits to exact its price from every man.
“Death” was not by order of the King yet the King rules over it and ruled over its conception and creation. It is in itself an enemy of the King; an opposite if you will, yet in no way an equal. I suppose it acts as a servant to the King while acting on its own. It can’t do whatever it wants, but whatever it wants it does. It longs to take from the King His voice, because it is that voice that restrains it. Oh and what a voice it is. Low and powerful but smooth as honey and bellowing at the most soothing end of a scale that does not exist, it really just becomes.
In His most righteous anger He need not raise his voice, for if the King was to raise his voice, one millionth of an octave, in anger, the whole of creation from His world to ours would be changed. Not changed in the sense of changing one’s mind, changed in the sense that NOTHING would remain as it was. No substance would be the same substance, no element the same element. No one would be who he or she was. And no one who was, would “be” again.
And there are three Knights. They are all noble, loving and fair, to all they meet, and to the servant, you will learn of him later. But they are human, bound to both a body of flesh and of rules, neither from which can they escape. And they, and only they, can fight the fight for which they have been conferred the title of Knight.
And there is a Knight to remember.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Hell
Is Hell literal? I have been asked this question over and over again by the same guy lately. His eyes are cold but not calloused, more scared. "I want to know" He says. I do too. But I think soon I will.
I believe in punishment. But eternal damnation? It doesn't make any sense. "What's the point?" I think I know, because if there's ever anyone that deserved it, it is me. I deserve it. My heart filled with obvious, visible, palatable iniquity must needs be damned.
What then is this grace that is spoken so highly of? Why am I even breathing? Why am I able to sit and look at this screen and type this ridiculous rambling list of questions?
I do believe in my total depravity. My total, total inability to live up to a standard. Even my own standard. It is not possible.
Jesus, appeal my case! I am so dead, so devastated, so deserving of being crushed in the wine press of Your wrath. Clothe me, or destroy me. I only deserve the one. I can only attain the one. I can only desire the one. You can not be taken hold of, You can only take hold of. You are the Beautiful One.
God, have mercy!
Hell is not about punishment, but about the goodness and greatness and beauty, and perfection and righteousness of God. I am so bland.
READ THIS: http://www.desiringgod.org/resource-library/sermons/the-echo-and-insufficiency-of-hell-part-1
I believe in punishment. But eternal damnation? It doesn't make any sense. "What's the point?" I think I know, because if there's ever anyone that deserved it, it is me. I deserve it. My heart filled with obvious, visible, palatable iniquity must needs be damned.
What then is this grace that is spoken so highly of? Why am I even breathing? Why am I able to sit and look at this screen and type this ridiculous rambling list of questions?
I do believe in my total depravity. My total, total inability to live up to a standard. Even my own standard. It is not possible.
Jesus, appeal my case! I am so dead, so devastated, so deserving of being crushed in the wine press of Your wrath. Clothe me, or destroy me. I only deserve the one. I can only attain the one. I can only desire the one. You can not be taken hold of, You can only take hold of. You are the Beautiful One.
God, have mercy!
Hell is not about punishment, but about the goodness and greatness and beauty, and perfection and righteousness of God. I am so bland.
READ THIS: http://www.desiringgod.org/resource-library/sermons/the-echo-and-insufficiency-of-hell-part-1
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Smiles, Faces & Weeds
A picture is worth a thousand words. Several years of pictures sing volumes into the spirit of a man. I have more than 40 years of Christmas and Thanksgiving pictures that I rotate on the big screen with Christmas music and this year something hit me.
My Grandpa Lewis smiled big and he meant it. My Dad stays stoic and serious reading something I asked him to look over for me. My mother smiles big too. I know she means it, but truth be told, she is like me, there is a lot in there that no one gets to know. Sue is very happy to be there, wherever there is. Tricia doesn’t smile at all; she is the smile to everyone in the room and in the picture. She is the smile that is always in the room with me.
The thing that I can see clearly, is that there is a difference between a smile and joy.
Every year, my wife has a “Cookie Day” it is like Willy Wonka and the oompa loompas invade my house. I watch as kids who have been here for years and who are starting to decide on careers and school and bigger things come in sit down, and make a snowman out of a candy cane. They make up games and laugh. They drink soda and coffee and eat freshly decorated cookies. They have fractured tacos and eat and just enjoy each other. As they see the camera turn on them, they change in an instant to a moment of silly defiant mockery making faces and acting out what is really in their hearts, joy.
We talk to them, we being Tricia aka Mrs. Lewis or the Cookie lady to some, and each of them has a story.
One story goes like this: My Dad lost his job and hasn’t been working for some time, my mother is pregnant and we aren’t really going to have Christmas this year. Mom and Dad need to use school savings for food and bills. Things are going to work out though and I am going to be a Trauma Surgeon. What the...? I love this girl. She has it all, angst, fears, trials, Smiles and Joy. You don't get that by yourself, it's given to you.
Another is a beautiful young girl that is a little confused about who she is really. But she is for the time being very happy if not a little uncomfortable. She’s older than most of the others, but not really, not on the inside.
There are even some who lost their father tragically when they were very young, and they have survived and fought against the despair that must threaten them every day. And I have never witnessed bigger brighter smiles.
Some of them organize a small contingent and take to the streets, Christmas Caroling. Who Caroles anymore? Angels.
Then the pictures start rolling by on the big screen as Stille Nacht Heil'ge Nacht plays inside and out of my house. A fire burns in the fireplace and I watch as the central theme of Christmas dances in the eyes and the hearts of these very incredible people.
And I hear a voice in me that says “look at the faces.” I am, I respond quietly. “No look at all of the faces!” So I concentrate and watch them one after another after another. They are all smiling or smirking, eating and laughing while pointing.
Then I see it. I see what the voice is trying to get me to see. There is one picture, then another, then another and the same thing in it. The same person and I can almost feel thorns and roots and weeds wrapping themselves around him. He smiles, but only on the outside, I think.
So I keep watching, and listening, and then a little boy with denim shorts and a new baseball glove comes on the screen, his plaid hat askew on his head, and a pacifier in his mouth. That picture is followed by a snap shot of three little boys playing in a box pretending it is a fort that cannot be breached. Next is a baby picture of my youngest in a car seat with his typical smirk and gleam in his eye. And then finally a boy wearing deep blue feety pajamas and the brightest blue eyes you have ever seen, he turned 22 today. Then the voice I love to hear whispers to me “only on the outside.” And all at once I am filled with joy, and I get up from my seat and kiss that smile that is always in the room with me, and the weeds start coming off, even if only on the inside. And I feel like a smile.
My Grandpa Lewis smiled big and he meant it. My Dad stays stoic and serious reading something I asked him to look over for me. My mother smiles big too. I know she means it, but truth be told, she is like me, there is a lot in there that no one gets to know. Sue is very happy to be there, wherever there is. Tricia doesn’t smile at all; she is the smile to everyone in the room and in the picture. She is the smile that is always in the room with me.
The thing that I can see clearly, is that there is a difference between a smile and joy.
Every year, my wife has a “Cookie Day” it is like Willy Wonka and the oompa loompas invade my house. I watch as kids who have been here for years and who are starting to decide on careers and school and bigger things come in sit down, and make a snowman out of a candy cane. They make up games and laugh. They drink soda and coffee and eat freshly decorated cookies. They have fractured tacos and eat and just enjoy each other. As they see the camera turn on them, they change in an instant to a moment of silly defiant mockery making faces and acting out what is really in their hearts, joy.
We talk to them, we being Tricia aka Mrs. Lewis or the Cookie lady to some, and each of them has a story.
One story goes like this: My Dad lost his job and hasn’t been working for some time, my mother is pregnant and we aren’t really going to have Christmas this year. Mom and Dad need to use school savings for food and bills. Things are going to work out though and I am going to be a Trauma Surgeon. What the...? I love this girl. She has it all, angst, fears, trials, Smiles and Joy. You don't get that by yourself, it's given to you.
Another is a beautiful young girl that is a little confused about who she is really. But she is for the time being very happy if not a little uncomfortable. She’s older than most of the others, but not really, not on the inside.
There are even some who lost their father tragically when they were very young, and they have survived and fought against the despair that must threaten them every day. And I have never witnessed bigger brighter smiles.
Some of them organize a small contingent and take to the streets, Christmas Caroling. Who Caroles anymore? Angels.
Then the pictures start rolling by on the big screen as Stille Nacht Heil'ge Nacht plays inside and out of my house. A fire burns in the fireplace and I watch as the central theme of Christmas dances in the eyes and the hearts of these very incredible people.
And I hear a voice in me that says “look at the faces.” I am, I respond quietly. “No look at all of the faces!” So I concentrate and watch them one after another after another. They are all smiling or smirking, eating and laughing while pointing.
Then I see it. I see what the voice is trying to get me to see. There is one picture, then another, then another and the same thing in it. The same person and I can almost feel thorns and roots and weeds wrapping themselves around him. He smiles, but only on the outside, I think.
So I keep watching, and listening, and then a little boy with denim shorts and a new baseball glove comes on the screen, his plaid hat askew on his head, and a pacifier in his mouth. That picture is followed by a snap shot of three little boys playing in a box pretending it is a fort that cannot be breached. Next is a baby picture of my youngest in a car seat with his typical smirk and gleam in his eye. And then finally a boy wearing deep blue feety pajamas and the brightest blue eyes you have ever seen, he turned 22 today. Then the voice I love to hear whispers to me “only on the outside.” And all at once I am filled with joy, and I get up from my seat and kiss that smile that is always in the room with me, and the weeds start coming off, even if only on the inside. And I feel like a smile.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
So much I love
There is so much I love about her that so many hate or brush aside. She is the light that shines, for now, so that many can see in the night. She is altogether lovely. I marvel at the disdain for all that she has represented for so long, when all that she has represented is that "we all just get along." But that is not really what they want. They don't want her to live and love and care for and treat and help. They want to destroy her. Like a bad spouse they want to change her. They want to make her what has made them hurt. Misery you see loves company.
No, even more than that misery hates all that is good and all that does not live in misery.
Can darkness abide with light? Can right, truly suffer wrong? Should truth bow, half way, to inaccuracy? Has a Thief ever broken into a bank to correct a journal entry against himself? Why must good bow to evil in our day. Why should not right stand firm against wrong. What is law if it is only to be applied to the law abiding.
This is NOT God’s plan. This is NOT the model. We human beings, not white men, but living breathing human beings are duty bound to either acknowledge the boundaries established by law or be overrun by the anarchy of children too foolish to understand their error. Too foolish to see the evil they perpetrate. Too foolish and too ignorant to acknowledge the havoc they reek on good men. They think they love, care for and help. Perhaps they are, but really for the most part they love, care for and help the one they love the most.
Wake up kids, you didn't even know what was happening when we watched you vomit for the first time. Don't you think the Boundaries of the Ancestors should be respected. Don't you think we have seen it or been told of it. But you move them, you adjust them at your whim, but know this, there is a God and He started the story and He taught your elders and He said "don't be quick to move the Boundaries of your Ancestors" for a reason.
No, even more than that misery hates all that is good and all that does not live in misery.
Can darkness abide with light? Can right, truly suffer wrong? Should truth bow, half way, to inaccuracy? Has a Thief ever broken into a bank to correct a journal entry against himself? Why must good bow to evil in our day. Why should not right stand firm against wrong. What is law if it is only to be applied to the law abiding.
This is NOT God’s plan. This is NOT the model. We human beings, not white men, but living breathing human beings are duty bound to either acknowledge the boundaries established by law or be overrun by the anarchy of children too foolish to understand their error. Too foolish to see the evil they perpetrate. Too foolish and too ignorant to acknowledge the havoc they reek on good men. They think they love, care for and help. Perhaps they are, but really for the most part they love, care for and help the one they love the most.
Wake up kids, you didn't even know what was happening when we watched you vomit for the first time. Don't you think the Boundaries of the Ancestors should be respected. Don't you think we have seen it or been told of it. But you move them, you adjust them at your whim, but know this, there is a God and He started the story and He taught your elders and He said "don't be quick to move the Boundaries of your Ancestors" for a reason.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The Garden
It was so sunny and hot, in fact it felt like there was a heat wave. The old man’s rough, scarred and bony hands were gloved by burned, overworked sundrenched skin. Every day he would get up and go to work at a job that was truly killing him.
I loved to watch him leave and I got so excited when he would come home. He drove what was probably the last real, steel Dodge truck ever made. No, not some aluminum or fiberglass piece of junk, but real BETHLEHEM STEEL production grade metal Dodge painted a camouflage green, only without the camouflage. I can’t explain it, it was amazing. Not the truck, the time, the Epoch. It was a time of innocence, and education, and growth. I was a seed planted, watered, watched over. It was THE time that made me who I am. Every bit of who I am. Everything about that time the barn, the hay, the family, the neighbors, the garden had an remarkable yet unremarkable affect on me. Sleeping in a garage with three brothers, and spying, hearing him pray that each one of us and our sister would be protected in body, mind and spirit. It was great, I can smell it now.
I remember going out to the garden with the heat of the day beating on me and the old man, and he never complained ever. Oh sure, he would stop his work periodically and lean against a fence post and sigh a big deep sigh. I do that to this day and EVERYONE thinks I am sad or depressed, or something. People don’t get it, I am just conditioned, I am not sad I am breathing and I am smelling because the old man said I should. I do what my master taught me, I sigh and I return to my work. That day, that hot, late spring day, he told me how his dad taught him to plant tomatoes and corn and cucumbers, oh and radishes. It was great. I learned what it took, and what timing was all about. You see you don’t just throw seed on the ground or stick it in holes, you prep and you pray and you wait. Then you plant just before a full moon and your seeds will germinate more readily. I did it that way year after year after year, and each year they would grow and I would harvest and every time I picked a vegetable I felt joy, real joy. Oh yeah, each year, I planted and I prayed. I prayed that God, the maker of heaven and earth would say the word that would cause that seed to germinate, and drink in the earth and the water, and He does.
On that hot day, the old man made me cut rows by hand with a hoe and it seemed like it took hours. Row after row, we were chopping the earth making the soil soft and ready for a seed. He promised me that if I would ask God to help, He would help. I remember it like it was two days ago, he said to me, make a hole as deep as your finger up to your second knuckle (I had shorter hands then). Do that every 10 inches in the row. Put three seeds in each hole. Now we will water it. “There is nothing more we can do now” he would say. We would then almost ritualistically bow our heads and turn it over to the next Gardner and we knew He would always do what was right. What a huge blessing to have that time.
I mentioned the heat, because it is really integral to my story, and yours. I mentioned the old man’s hands because they were exposed to the heat day after day, month after month and year after year. The heat comes out of nowhere, and literally scorches you. You sweat, you tire, you thirst, you groan and you wipe your brow with your handkerchief (I know that because that is what the old man would do as he sighed and leaned against that fence). But as he told me that day, “Bub, if you will watch the ground where you placed the seed, and if you will water, weed and pray every day, the real Master gardner will say the word and make that seed crack open under the cool earth and out will spring a small root, and a sprout and then fruit.” But, he told me, “without the heat, there will be no death, and without the death, there will be no life.” There can be no fruit.
More than 40 years have passed since that day, two days ago, so much pain has come and gone in so many lives. So much anger from this world. So much heat. In the mornings, it doesn’t slow you down. It is cool and refreshing, so you don’t think about that heat coming. You feel like this is how it will always be, quiet, cool and restful. But before you even realize it, that old truck is coming up the lane and, turning into the gravel driveway, brakes squeaking and it dawns on you, that it is the heat of the day and you missed the morning. Worse yet, you realize the real work is about to begin.
Two years ago, I remember thinking that things seemed good or warm. I thought of that leathery old man and his lessons. But I complained, and I groaned and I wiped my brow and then I realized, it’s only morning, the real work is about to begin. I could hear the gravel under the truck tires and I knew I was about to get down to my chores. I wish I had recognized it earlier, I could have found so much joy in planting and waiting and praying.
In my house, in Carmichael, in California and in America, it is now late afternoon and the heat is beating down. Friends are fatigued and tempted to turn from us, and we from them, and many will. It is hot and we are looking for a post to lean on and a handkerchief with which to wipe our brow and cease from our labor, but the sun is shining and the old man would not allow it. “Pick up the hoe now” he would say and let’s ready that dirt for the seed and the seed for the word that will be spoken. And when it is spoken, the moon will pull as only it can, and the sun will shine down and the water will soften the hard seed and there will be a crack and a root and a sprout. And soon, very soon there will be fruit and a harvest and joy, real joy. I know this because the old man promised and I heard him talking to the next Gardner and I know He will always do what is right.
I loved to watch him leave and I got so excited when he would come home. He drove what was probably the last real, steel Dodge truck ever made. No, not some aluminum or fiberglass piece of junk, but real BETHLEHEM STEEL production grade metal Dodge painted a camouflage green, only without the camouflage. I can’t explain it, it was amazing. Not the truck, the time, the Epoch. It was a time of innocence, and education, and growth. I was a seed planted, watered, watched over. It was THE time that made me who I am. Every bit of who I am. Everything about that time the barn, the hay, the family, the neighbors, the garden had an remarkable yet unremarkable affect on me. Sleeping in a garage with three brothers, and spying, hearing him pray that each one of us and our sister would be protected in body, mind and spirit. It was great, I can smell it now.
I remember going out to the garden with the heat of the day beating on me and the old man, and he never complained ever. Oh sure, he would stop his work periodically and lean against a fence post and sigh a big deep sigh. I do that to this day and EVERYONE thinks I am sad or depressed, or something. People don’t get it, I am just conditioned, I am not sad I am breathing and I am smelling because the old man said I should. I do what my master taught me, I sigh and I return to my work. That day, that hot, late spring day, he told me how his dad taught him to plant tomatoes and corn and cucumbers, oh and radishes. It was great. I learned what it took, and what timing was all about. You see you don’t just throw seed on the ground or stick it in holes, you prep and you pray and you wait. Then you plant just before a full moon and your seeds will germinate more readily. I did it that way year after year after year, and each year they would grow and I would harvest and every time I picked a vegetable I felt joy, real joy. Oh yeah, each year, I planted and I prayed. I prayed that God, the maker of heaven and earth would say the word that would cause that seed to germinate, and drink in the earth and the water, and He does.
On that hot day, the old man made me cut rows by hand with a hoe and it seemed like it took hours. Row after row, we were chopping the earth making the soil soft and ready for a seed. He promised me that if I would ask God to help, He would help. I remember it like it was two days ago, he said to me, make a hole as deep as your finger up to your second knuckle (I had shorter hands then). Do that every 10 inches in the row. Put three seeds in each hole. Now we will water it. “There is nothing more we can do now” he would say. We would then almost ritualistically bow our heads and turn it over to the next Gardner and we knew He would always do what was right. What a huge blessing to have that time.
I mentioned the heat, because it is really integral to my story, and yours. I mentioned the old man’s hands because they were exposed to the heat day after day, month after month and year after year. The heat comes out of nowhere, and literally scorches you. You sweat, you tire, you thirst, you groan and you wipe your brow with your handkerchief (I know that because that is what the old man would do as he sighed and leaned against that fence). But as he told me that day, “Bub, if you will watch the ground where you placed the seed, and if you will water, weed and pray every day, the real Master gardner will say the word and make that seed crack open under the cool earth and out will spring a small root, and a sprout and then fruit.” But, he told me, “without the heat, there will be no death, and without the death, there will be no life.” There can be no fruit.
More than 40 years have passed since that day, two days ago, so much pain has come and gone in so many lives. So much anger from this world. So much heat. In the mornings, it doesn’t slow you down. It is cool and refreshing, so you don’t think about that heat coming. You feel like this is how it will always be, quiet, cool and restful. But before you even realize it, that old truck is coming up the lane and, turning into the gravel driveway, brakes squeaking and it dawns on you, that it is the heat of the day and you missed the morning. Worse yet, you realize the real work is about to begin.
Two years ago, I remember thinking that things seemed good or warm. I thought of that leathery old man and his lessons. But I complained, and I groaned and I wiped my brow and then I realized, it’s only morning, the real work is about to begin. I could hear the gravel under the truck tires and I knew I was about to get down to my chores. I wish I had recognized it earlier, I could have found so much joy in planting and waiting and praying.
In my house, in Carmichael, in California and in America, it is now late afternoon and the heat is beating down. Friends are fatigued and tempted to turn from us, and we from them, and many will. It is hot and we are looking for a post to lean on and a handkerchief with which to wipe our brow and cease from our labor, but the sun is shining and the old man would not allow it. “Pick up the hoe now” he would say and let’s ready that dirt for the seed and the seed for the word that will be spoken. And when it is spoken, the moon will pull as only it can, and the sun will shine down and the water will soften the hard seed and there will be a crack and a root and a sprout. And soon, very soon there will be fruit and a harvest and joy, real joy. I know this because the old man promised and I heard him talking to the next Gardner and I know He will always do what is right.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Choices
In the kitchen there is a big bowl of fruit. Sometimes it is all different, other times it’s all the same fruit. I was wondering which one was the best of the apples. I picked them up one by one, and I thought "I own them all, they are mine. I should just love them all the same, they’re all mine."
I picked them up and I smelled them. Each smelled so “appley,” and I loved it. I love the smell of apples. I picked them up, smelling and feeling each of them and then put them back in the bowl one by one. Experiencing each of them alone, and somewhere in my minds memory, I catalogued them. They are mine and I can have them as I want them.
I have owned a lot of cars. I started with one my dad gave me. I called it Kermit. It was a big, huge Mercury Park Lane. It was great. I also owned a Ford Courier. I got to have it painted by an expert Low Rider Artist. It was well, Bold. I also owned a Sentra, a Corolla, and a Maxima. But among my cars, I remember most my Ford Mustang GT. I drove them all, but I really drove the GT. It was fast, fun, loud and had that “throatie,” American exhaust sound that only a real American muscle car can make. It was for me, MY car I drove it, I really drove it.
Isn’t all that just boring? I spend a lot of time thinking. I drive a lot.
I thought back to the apples. Which one do I love the most? My boy Nate grabs one on his way to school, but it is mine. My wife may have one sliced up with her dinner, but it is also mine. Do I really love those?
Today, I had one of the apples. I picked it up. I was hungry for an apple. I smelled it. I held it in my hands and felt it. I looked at it, and I thought: "I can’t taste it. I can’t hear this apple." Then I bit into it. I tasted it, and as my teeth sunk into its flesh and the blood of the apple quenched my thirst and in an almost wasteful way, splashed onto my lips. I could almost feel the crisp crunch in my ears. I found the apple I loved the most. It was a miracle. One bite and I had my favorite. I didn't do anything for it, I didn't give it a gift, I ate it and I tasted it and I drank it in. It was so refreshing. It literally fed me while none of the other apples in that big wooden bowl did anything but sit there.
So now I am driving again, and I am thinking: "Here I am in my Chrysler 300C driving smoothly at 90 miles per hour. And I thought which one is in the bowl? Which one is my favorite? Which one do I really love?"
Then I looked in the bowl and in my mind’s eye, I saw all of my gods, and my God. And I wondered which one do I eat, and drink and smell and taste and love the most? There are so many, and only one that speaks to me or hears me. Only one that answers and cares. Only one that instructs me to Love Justice, Show Mercy and Walk Humbly before Him.
And He is the one I have not eaten completely. He is the one that stands and beckons me saying “come to me if you are hungry” and warns me “if you do not eat my flesh and drink my blood, you shall not…”
Truth is, the apple I eat is the apple I love. My lies are exposed, I can’t tell the one “I love you” but eat the other.
I picked them up and I smelled them. Each smelled so “appley,” and I loved it. I love the smell of apples. I picked them up, smelling and feeling each of them and then put them back in the bowl one by one. Experiencing each of them alone, and somewhere in my minds memory, I catalogued them. They are mine and I can have them as I want them.
I have owned a lot of cars. I started with one my dad gave me. I called it Kermit. It was a big, huge Mercury Park Lane. It was great. I also owned a Ford Courier. I got to have it painted by an expert Low Rider Artist. It was well, Bold. I also owned a Sentra, a Corolla, and a Maxima. But among my cars, I remember most my Ford Mustang GT. I drove them all, but I really drove the GT. It was fast, fun, loud and had that “throatie,” American exhaust sound that only a real American muscle car can make. It was for me, MY car I drove it, I really drove it.
Isn’t all that just boring? I spend a lot of time thinking. I drive a lot.
I thought back to the apples. Which one do I love the most? My boy Nate grabs one on his way to school, but it is mine. My wife may have one sliced up with her dinner, but it is also mine. Do I really love those?
Today, I had one of the apples. I picked it up. I was hungry for an apple. I smelled it. I held it in my hands and felt it. I looked at it, and I thought: "I can’t taste it. I can’t hear this apple." Then I bit into it. I tasted it, and as my teeth sunk into its flesh and the blood of the apple quenched my thirst and in an almost wasteful way, splashed onto my lips. I could almost feel the crisp crunch in my ears. I found the apple I loved the most. It was a miracle. One bite and I had my favorite. I didn't do anything for it, I didn't give it a gift, I ate it and I tasted it and I drank it in. It was so refreshing. It literally fed me while none of the other apples in that big wooden bowl did anything but sit there.
So now I am driving again, and I am thinking: "Here I am in my Chrysler 300C driving smoothly at 90 miles per hour. And I thought which one is in the bowl? Which one is my favorite? Which one do I really love?"
Then I looked in the bowl and in my mind’s eye, I saw all of my gods, and my God. And I wondered which one do I eat, and drink and smell and taste and love the most? There are so many, and only one that speaks to me or hears me. Only one that answers and cares. Only one that instructs me to Love Justice, Show Mercy and Walk Humbly before Him.
And He is the one I have not eaten completely. He is the one that stands and beckons me saying “come to me if you are hungry” and warns me “if you do not eat my flesh and drink my blood, you shall not…”
Truth is, the apple I eat is the apple I love. My lies are exposed, I can’t tell the one “I love you” but eat the other.
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