Burnout...a gift of grace

When we first moved to Sabbath Rest Farm, there was a lot of clearing out to do. Over the years the ground had grown up in multiflora rose, black pines, and briars. The pastures were run down and the grass blanketed with weeds. The hill in front of our house was cleared as the old road, deeply rutted, was reshaped and a new road put in. The debris was piled and burned on the side of the hill after the work was completed. The next spring, as the grass greened, a patch of grass at the site of the burn pile, was noticeably greener than all the other grass on the hillside. It continues to be greener each year.
Farmers in South Georgia routinely burn their pastures every year at winter’s end. Daddy always said it killed off some weed seeds, removed last year’s thatch from the grass and provided some natural fertilizer. Preparation was simple but necessary. You put some water in a tank on the truck and drove the fence line, wetting down the edges of the field and the fence posts. The water also meant you could drench wayward embers. Grass burns quickly and cleanly so the farmer always stayed with the fire, walking the perimeter, making sure the burn did not escape. You kept an eye on the fence posts because you did not want them to burn and when the little fire had raced across the field, you drove the field again, putting out hot spots. By protecting your fence line, you were also protecting your neighbor’s land and the surrounding woodland. When spring came, the green grass grew cleanly, evenly across the fields because all the trash had been burned away.
These past few months, the pasture of my soul has been burned in preparation for new life to come. These burns have come before and will come again. I hope I have been a good farmer, tending the burn line, checking the hot spots, being present to the process. I have used the Water of Life to contain the burn and now wait for the greening time to come. The thatch of complacency and the weed seeds of “I can do it myself” have been burned away. Once again I have been given a gift, the reminder that we all stand in need and as we ask for help, receive help and in return become helpers, we are the Family of God. Thank you, my loved ones for building fence lines, feeding animals, calling and kicking my rear end, calling and not kicking my rear end, bringing food, porch sitting, listening and loving me through this grass burn. When you need me, give a holler and I will return the favor. Grace was given to each of us, Saint Paul says, according to the measure of Christ’s gift. My tank is full, overflowing with grace and I am grateful.

Spring has sprung...

It is cool and quiet in the almost light morning. More rain is on the way. It is always surprising how quickly the earth hardens from mud to a baked surface. The hay is standing tall in the fields and if it warms up, we will be cutting hay sooner rather than later. Mother’s Day has traditionally been the dividing line for garden planting in the mountains. Gary and Leisa planted corn and beans in our garden space. The beans will climb the corn stalks and with a little luck, the human beings may get some corn before the raccoons get it all. Spraying the horses and cows for flies is now a weekly job, another sure sign the warm weather is here.
Baby rabbits sit by the road, frozen and hoping to become invisible. Bluebird parents fly back and forth, endlessly feeding the brood inside the birdhouses. A black snake slithers down the bank as I mow the walking path. In the old berry patch, a box turtle sits soaking up the sun and raises his head as I pass by. The black bear that shares our farm visited mama last night, spending time beneath her bedroom window and leaving his tracks through her garden. She wants to fire her rifle to scare him off. Animal lover that she is, she would never intentionally hurt an animal. But, she would scare the bejezus out of the bear to protect her cats. We haven’t seen the wild white turkey recently. Turkey hunting season culls the flock and he may have been killed. Gary has a beautiful picture of him with his tail spread.Once again all creation is obeying God’s admonition to go forth and multiply.
The turning point, the still point, the time when time holds still as one season ends and another begins, is sacred ground. For those who have ears to hear bird song and eyes to see invisible baby rabbits, God’s tracks in our world are everywhere. I listen to the soft turkey gobbles in the woods below our house as I walk to the stable in the morning and hear “all is well, all is well”. The rooster crows and crows, pushing the world to get up and get moving, doing the work he was given in creation. The horses’ coats are slick and shiny. They have shed all the extra coats of winter and lightened up for spring and summer. I need to let go of some of my extra coats that have grown this winter and prepare for new life yet to come.
God said in Genesis, “Let there be lights in the firmament of the heavens to separate day from night; and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years…” So it has been since time began and so it is now. The lights in the firmament of heaven mark the seasons and are a sign of God’s presence in our natural world. The ground we walk on is God’s ground. When we breathe in soft spring air, we breathe in God’s breath. When we sit in silence, we hear God passing by in the rush of wings or the rumble of thunder. Sunlight, moonlight, and starlight mark the passage of time, time with God in a world that renews and recreates itself year after year. Spring has sprung here at Sabbath Rest Farm and spring will spring in me. Thanks be to God for new seasons of rest and renewal. Selah.

I need a little pentecost...

I have begun three different times to write this morning and have run dry all three times. Two paragraphs in, I sit and look at what I have written and wonder where I am going with this. Select all, cut, start over… It has been a whirlwind spring without much time for silence and reflection. The riverbed of my soul is as dry as red clay baked hard in summer sun. When these fallow times come, it is difficult to let them be, to rest in the “not doing”. My old tapes play… get busy, you are being lazy, there is so much to do, get a move on. And there is so much I would love to do… finish painting the quilt panel for the high barn, do some calligraphy, ride Junie B, read, sew, have a party with all my women friends. But I can’t seem to find the energy needed to do much beyond what is absolutely necessary.
Some of this is physical, a response to the demands on my sixty four year old body, and some is psychological, the spring blues. My spiritual malaise however, echoes the church calendar and our history as Christians. After the long walk through Lent, the death darkness of Good Friday and the blinding light of Easter Resurrection, I am worn out. I suspect the disciples were, too. High drama, life and death and life again, fear and joy… the pendulum swings from one extreme to another had no resting place for body or soul.
And then, Pentecost came with such blinding speed out of the blue, knocking the socks off all who were present. Marvelous mayhem, words spoken and understood regardless of language, fiery crowns of spirit were an outward sign of an inward transformation. I do not seek to explain the miracle of Pentecost. I hunger for a Pentecost of my own as I pray and wait for my fiery crown. Perhaps my Pentecost will be quieter, doves not fire, or perhaps I will wake filled with the Spirit and singing (sorry, Catherine) in the early morning. However Pentecost comes, it will come and I will be ready.
Until then, I will do what I always do in times of drought. I will give thanks. I will pray gratitude and speak a litany of thanksgiving for all that has been and all that is yet to come. I will remember where I came from, to whom I belong, and be grateful for the journey with all of its joys and sorrows. And when Pentecost comes and my dry bones are covered with living flesh, I pray I will remember to sing the Lord’s song when the drought comes again. Thanks be to God for all the Pentecosts of my life, the Spirit that sings a new song in my soul year after year and the God who never leaves me nor forsakes me.

Secondhand resurrection...

We came home from Texas to a rodeo of sorts on the farm. The cows chose the week before Michael’s knee replacement surgery to break out, to run free through the grass that was greener on the other side. Every day until the fences were repaired, I was singing “Get Along, Little Doggie” while I shooed the cows from neighbor’s yards, our yards, or separated our bull, Bully, from Gary’s bull in the middle of “Mine is bigger than your’s” contests. After two weeks of this, the fun was gone and my voice grew shrill. Thanks to friends and some young hired help, the fences were reconstructed and the daily routine no longer includes a cattle drive.
Being one farmer down has meant I have had to care for the chickens, not one of my favorite animals. Daddy had Rhode Island Reds and they were my after school chore… feed, water, gather eggs. Perhaps it was the context of the beginning of our relationship, one that was decided for me not one of choice, that set the tone but I never felt much affection for the chickens. Michael and our grandsons love them. They are named, picked up and cuddled, chased and caught, celebrated with laughter and story. I am glad for them and the chickens but feel no guilt (well, maybe not much) about my lack of feeling connected to the chickens. After all, you can love animals (and people) without liking them much, right Mary Lynn?
All the activity of the past six weeks has left my soul gasping for breath. So much to do, not enough time to do it all, and spring, like the cows, busting out all over. Easter came and I was wrung dry. My dry bones were crying out for resurrection. I came to Easter worship scattered and brain dead.
The first hymn, Christ the Lord Has Risen Today, should be pitched and sung joyfully. Due to a major oversight on my part, the trombone accompaniment was in the key of C which was too low for everybody but Pastor Pat and other basses to sing. My soul staggered along as we sang, passed the peace, shared celebrations and concerns, prayed, read scripture, listened to the sermon and I waited for Easter to come. Finally it did during the offering.
Marquasia, a young African American girl, stood in front of the church, dressed in her best Easter finery, to sing our special music. She looked at me. I smiled and began the introduction. Swing low, Sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home… a song I have known and loved since childhood… Her voice barely made it to the back row but her joy and pride in singing were loud and clear. The congregation joined in softly and suddenly, in the harmony of the moment, Easter came rushing in. There we were…young and old, black and white, all of us dressed in the best we had to offer… gathered together waiting on a resurrection we aren’t sure will come.
Reading the four very different accounts of the resurrection in the gospels, I feel the scattered lostness of the disciples. Their world has come crashing down and nothing is left to show for the years they have invested in Jesus and his mission. Huddled together for comfort, they sit and wait, not sure what will come next. And when it comes, they don’t recognize it, don’t believe it. The women insist Jesus is alive, they have seen him but until he appears to them, the men can’t take their word for it. Secondhand resurrection stories are difficult to swallow. I am those disciples. I go through the motions, sit and wait, hear the words and can’t quite believe resurrection will ever come for me. Then I hear and see Marquasia sing and resurrection flows right over me, fills up the crannies in my soul and waters my parched spirit. Thanks be to God for the deserts and dry places, times of death and dark nights of the soul. Without them, how could we see and feel the power of new life, the return of light after darkness and the blooming buds of a soul coming into full flower again? It is no longer a secondhand resurrection story but my story, my resurrection that teaches me there is more life to come than I can imagine. Thank you, Jesus…