The hayfields are beautiful this year... ankle deep plush emerald green carpets of grass and clover. Winter snows, poor man’s fertilizer, has given the grass a jump start and it is a lovely sight. Every year Gary and I joke because I think the hay should be cut before he does. He tells me he doesn’t believe in freeze dried hay. This may be the year we do indeed have freeze dried hay if the grass continues to grow at this rate.
One of the first lessons I learned from my father about hay was to never drive over the hay field because it damages the grass. Driving over the grass once leaves marks that may not go away for weeks. And a repeated passage in the same place will kill the grass leaving two dirt tracks. One doesn’t think of grass as fragile but when you depend on grass hay to feed your animals or to sell, you begin to realize it needs protection just as other crops do.
We have lived on Sabbath Rest Farm now for ten years. Gradually the fields and pastures are being restored to their productive beauty. Some areas of the farm are set aside as woods and open range with scrubby growth, trees and wild grasses to help sustain the wildlife. But as the pastures have blossomed, we have begun to see more deer grazing. They appreciate the cafeteria line of clover, timothy and orchard grass that is available now. We share the pasture with them and the sight of their graceful beauty gladdens our hearts.
All through the fields and hills on the farm are pathways worn in the grass and woods... animal highways... bear, deer, foxes, raccoons, wildcat... mostly night time traffic that passes by us unseen and unnoticed except for the paths they leave behind. Many of these paths skirt the edges of the pastures where an animal might safely graze protected by the sheltering woods. A few cross the fields as the animals travel the shortest distance between two patches of woods.
Our son Adam and his wife Michelle are having a baby boy in September, the fifth Hester male to be born in that month. Five grandsons... each of them are a treasured blessing. I listen to our daughters tease their brother telling him he will now have to pay for his sins as a child, reminding him of all the trouble he got into, gloating and rejoicing at the same time as he begins this life long journey as a father. I listen knowing they have had to pay for their raising by raising their own, sometimes joyfully, sometimes painfully but always with love.
None of us knows what we are getting into when we have children and that is a good thing. How can you explain the tracks your child leaves in the hayfield of your heart? How those trails, those worn down places lead you back to the One who created you? There are no words that are sufficient to describe the feelings you have when you first see the embodied form of your child created in love. That special ever new everyday miracle of birth is a communion ritual with God, an occasion for laughter and tears, sharing the bread of life and the wine of suffering. For the rest of your life you will never again be able to think of only yourself. You are a parent and will be to the day you die. How does God do it...
So this day I am giving thanks for all the well worn trails and paths that cross the hayfields of my heart and I am getting ready for a new path, a new baby boy. I am blessed beyond measure and I know that. In this my sixty third year, I count my blessings and know that as God clothes the grass, so will he give Adam and Michelle strength and joy for the journey. Life is gift indeed. Thanks be to God from whom all life flows.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Speaking the truth in love... or not
Little Michael (as opposed to Big Michael, my husband) was helping me with some farm work last week. It was grunt work, not very exciting, but necessary and a task that needs to be done regularly. He came in to get a drink of water, wiped his forehead and said, “When I tell people I work on a farm they always say, ‘Oh, how wonderful! Good honest labor!’ They have no idea.” We both know that folks who visit see beautiful pastures, mountain views, horses and donkeys, cows, chickens and it is romantic. They do not see or appreciate the daily stall mucking, feeding cows twice a day in bone chilling weather, picking up a chicken carcass mauled by a raccoon, hot sweaty hay baling in the summertime, changing the oil in the tractor or mending the fence line, an unending task. Like most of us, usually all we see of another’s life is the shiny bright surface not the hard work it takes to create a life. Finding the words and speaking the truth of your life is not an easy proposition.
One of the reasons I love animals is their direct form of communication. When Wiley the cat is hungry, he won’t stop yowling until you feed him. When Junie B is miffed with you for being so slow to let her out of the stall, she will nip you on the arm with her lips. If Barney is frightened of the UPS man, he barks very very loudly. The UPS man now leaves our packages by the front walk where he can drop them without getting out. Dixie, the head horse, will bite the others on the butt if they don’t move when she thinks they should. Subtlety is not a part of their communication process. They work hard to survive in a world dominated by two legged creatures who control their destiny, so straightforward communication is a necessity.
I did not learn good skills for communication of feelings growing up. When daddy got mad, he stopped talking and it was your job to try to figure out why. Usually it wasn’t your fault but you were always left wondering. Positive feelings were equally stifled for him. Growing up in a harsh household scarred him and saying “I love you” was painful. He carried all his feelings clutched close with an occasional eruption, using his rational argumentative self to keep them at bay. But, daddy showed up. He proved his love by being there, providing shelter for family members who needed help or a place to live, respite while they caught their breath for a fresh start. He couldn’t say the words but he could do the work.
I am fairly placid most of the time on the surface. Michael tells me I am like a duck floating on a pond. Serene to public view but paddling like crazy underneath. That is, I think, an accurate assessment. I learned the art of public serenity growing up and I also have a dose of Granddaddy in my gene pool. He was a gentle man whose calm sweetness provided the perfect foil for my grandma’s tartness. I am slow to anger generally and even slower to voice it. When I reach the point of no return in expressing anger, I have been paddling around in that feeling for awhile.
Last week I had occasion to express anger forcefully with and directed to a particular person. Reflecting upon the experience, I realized I was angry not only at that person for not doing what they said they would do, but also because their behavior was hurting people I love. I had no dog in the fight directly. Either this person measured up or he didn’t. If he didn’t, he didn’t and I bore no more responsibility for his life. But people I care about have been hurt. People who are connected to this lost life are scared and worried, feeling guilty and frustrated while struggling to help someone who doesn’t seem to get the message.
Speaking the truth in love is not an easy or tidy process. Feelings get hurt. Defense systems are activated. Both the speaker and the hearer pay a price when shields are let down for individual truth speaking. The price paid however can lead to a richer more rewarding way of being family. Jesus got mad and lost it a time or two. Fig trees and Pharisees, both barren in fruit, raised his dander and the stories of his righteous indignation relieve some of my anxiety about my anger management skills or the lack thereof. Getting mad, speaking your piece and getting over it... Jesus knew how to do that. I still need some practice. I suspect many of us do.
One of the reasons I love animals is their direct form of communication. When Wiley the cat is hungry, he won’t stop yowling until you feed him. When Junie B is miffed with you for being so slow to let her out of the stall, she will nip you on the arm with her lips. If Barney is frightened of the UPS man, he barks very very loudly. The UPS man now leaves our packages by the front walk where he can drop them without getting out. Dixie, the head horse, will bite the others on the butt if they don’t move when she thinks they should. Subtlety is not a part of their communication process. They work hard to survive in a world dominated by two legged creatures who control their destiny, so straightforward communication is a necessity.
I did not learn good skills for communication of feelings growing up. When daddy got mad, he stopped talking and it was your job to try to figure out why. Usually it wasn’t your fault but you were always left wondering. Positive feelings were equally stifled for him. Growing up in a harsh household scarred him and saying “I love you” was painful. He carried all his feelings clutched close with an occasional eruption, using his rational argumentative self to keep them at bay. But, daddy showed up. He proved his love by being there, providing shelter for family members who needed help or a place to live, respite while they caught their breath for a fresh start. He couldn’t say the words but he could do the work.
I am fairly placid most of the time on the surface. Michael tells me I am like a duck floating on a pond. Serene to public view but paddling like crazy underneath. That is, I think, an accurate assessment. I learned the art of public serenity growing up and I also have a dose of Granddaddy in my gene pool. He was a gentle man whose calm sweetness provided the perfect foil for my grandma’s tartness. I am slow to anger generally and even slower to voice it. When I reach the point of no return in expressing anger, I have been paddling around in that feeling for awhile.
Last week I had occasion to express anger forcefully with and directed to a particular person. Reflecting upon the experience, I realized I was angry not only at that person for not doing what they said they would do, but also because their behavior was hurting people I love. I had no dog in the fight directly. Either this person measured up or he didn’t. If he didn’t, he didn’t and I bore no more responsibility for his life. But people I care about have been hurt. People who are connected to this lost life are scared and worried, feeling guilty and frustrated while struggling to help someone who doesn’t seem to get the message.
Speaking the truth in love is not an easy or tidy process. Feelings get hurt. Defense systems are activated. Both the speaker and the hearer pay a price when shields are let down for individual truth speaking. The price paid however can lead to a richer more rewarding way of being family. Jesus got mad and lost it a time or two. Fig trees and Pharisees, both barren in fruit, raised his dander and the stories of his righteous indignation relieve some of my anxiety about my anger management skills or the lack thereof. Getting mad, speaking your piece and getting over it... Jesus knew how to do that. I still need some practice. I suspect many of us do.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Bright Sunday...Resurrection Recess
Sitting around the table over a bowl of soup with friends, we began reminiscing about recess time during our school years. Recess was a childhood right, a necessity for child and teacher alike. Children were set free from the confines of desk and schoolroom to run amok on the playground. Teachers were set free to sit and visit with their compatriots as we played. Fifteen-twenty minutes in the mid-morning and thirty glorious minutes in the afternoon gave us all time to stretch and breathe, a wonderful time outdoors.
Once in a great while a teacher might organize an activity but mostly we were left to our own devices. Four square, hop scotch, kick ball, red rover, tagyou’reit, kick the boy you love and run, jacks and marbles, crack the whip...we never ran out of things to do or places to play. The only reasons we missed our recess was if it was raining cats and dogs or if we were being punished as a class for some awful horrible transgression. Recess was a part of our daily routine until we left the eight grade and entered high school and had to take Physical Education.
Yesterday I was a part of a Bright Sunday worship, a remnant of the Feast of Fools from the Middle Ages. It can be celebrated on the first Sunday after Easter, traditionally Low Sunday in most evangelical Protestant traditions (low in attendance and sometimes mood), as well as Monday. Easter Monday is celebrated in many Greek and Slavic countries as a day of joy and laughter to honor the resurrection of Christ. The custom is said to date back to a sermon by the 5th century orator and Bishop of Constantinople, John Chrysostom. He called Easter a cosmic joke that God played on Satan, surprising him by raising Jesus from the dead. The so-called “Bright Monday” tradition developed to celebrate that joke on the day after Easter. People would tell funny stories, play pranks and practical jokes, and laugh a lot. Whatever its origin or which day you choose to celebrate, it makes a lot of sense. The solemnity of Lent and Jesus’ passion culminates with the tremendous joy of Easter, so why not tell bad jokes, laugh and play, take a recess from the daily grind of life?
Bright Sunday at Alison’s church is bright indeed. Everyone wears bright (should I say tacky?) clothes. Hawaiian shirts, orange, purple, red, green, blue, multi-colored, stripes and florals... and everywhere a lightness of spirit joins a brightness of soul. As they enter into a community mission venture with a neighbor Mormon church, they are using Sunday morning to say what they believe individually and as a congregation. As an act of worship to flesh out their credos, we were asked to write on a small piece of paper one thing we believed about God, insert it in the balloon and blow it up. After all the balloons were blown up, we played bat the balloon until all the balloons had been relocated around the sanctuary. We were to take one balloon home, pop it and read what someone else believed about God knowing that none of us have the whole picture. Worship recess... foolishness... laughter that must gladden the heart of God even as the giggles of my grandsons makes my heart sing.
This will be my Bright Week as I carry the memory of Jesus death and resurrection in my heart, laughing as I do my daily chores, celebrating the foolishness that surrounds me. The chickens egg song, the woodpecker pecking, the donkey long faces, the frog song, the holy hilarity of life and death and life reborn in springtime. Did you hear the one about the Presbyterian Ladies Room? Taped to the hot air drier for wet hands was this notice... Press here to hear our pastor’s last sermon. (Told by a Presbyterian friend of mine). Yuk it up. Have a blast. Be a fool for Christ’s sake.
Once in a great while a teacher might organize an activity but mostly we were left to our own devices. Four square, hop scotch, kick ball, red rover, tagyou’reit, kick the boy you love and run, jacks and marbles, crack the whip...we never ran out of things to do or places to play. The only reasons we missed our recess was if it was raining cats and dogs or if we were being punished as a class for some awful horrible transgression. Recess was a part of our daily routine until we left the eight grade and entered high school and had to take Physical Education.
Yesterday I was a part of a Bright Sunday worship, a remnant of the Feast of Fools from the Middle Ages. It can be celebrated on the first Sunday after Easter, traditionally Low Sunday in most evangelical Protestant traditions (low in attendance and sometimes mood), as well as Monday. Easter Monday is celebrated in many Greek and Slavic countries as a day of joy and laughter to honor the resurrection of Christ. The custom is said to date back to a sermon by the 5th century orator and Bishop of Constantinople, John Chrysostom. He called Easter a cosmic joke that God played on Satan, surprising him by raising Jesus from the dead. The so-called “Bright Monday” tradition developed to celebrate that joke on the day after Easter. People would tell funny stories, play pranks and practical jokes, and laugh a lot. Whatever its origin or which day you choose to celebrate, it makes a lot of sense. The solemnity of Lent and Jesus’ passion culminates with the tremendous joy of Easter, so why not tell bad jokes, laugh and play, take a recess from the daily grind of life?
Bright Sunday at Alison’s church is bright indeed. Everyone wears bright (should I say tacky?) clothes. Hawaiian shirts, orange, purple, red, green, blue, multi-colored, stripes and florals... and everywhere a lightness of spirit joins a brightness of soul. As they enter into a community mission venture with a neighbor Mormon church, they are using Sunday morning to say what they believe individually and as a congregation. As an act of worship to flesh out their credos, we were asked to write on a small piece of paper one thing we believed about God, insert it in the balloon and blow it up. After all the balloons were blown up, we played bat the balloon until all the balloons had been relocated around the sanctuary. We were to take one balloon home, pop it and read what someone else believed about God knowing that none of us have the whole picture. Worship recess... foolishness... laughter that must gladden the heart of God even as the giggles of my grandsons makes my heart sing.
This will be my Bright Week as I carry the memory of Jesus death and resurrection in my heart, laughing as I do my daily chores, celebrating the foolishness that surrounds me. The chickens egg song, the woodpecker pecking, the donkey long faces, the frog song, the holy hilarity of life and death and life reborn in springtime. Did you hear the one about the Presbyterian Ladies Room? Taped to the hot air drier for wet hands was this notice... Press here to hear our pastor’s last sermon. (Told by a Presbyterian friend of mine). Yuk it up. Have a blast. Be a fool for Christ’s sake.
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