Green

I find it quite amazing that things grow here so easily.  And if you have been to Southern California, you probably think I'm crazy, but let me banter a bit.  This is a desolate land for the most part.  There is always dust and sand everywhere.  Scrub bushes and ruddy trees (call Scrub Oak) dot the landscape.  Pine trees are the tallest and largest trees here.... But when the weather turns cooler, and it rains for days, the ground comes alive!  Just outside our house there is a path to the Leap of Faith high ropes element, and further on, the swing set, and soccer/baseball fields.  At the beginning of that path, little shoots of grass have started coming up, of their own accord!  Grass doesn't grow here, by itself, without being unnaturally watered, unless it is raining (which only happens in the fall and winter I am told).  The ground just soaks up every little bit, and throws out grass, flowers, and sprigs of small plants that have been just waiting for moisture.  It's fun to see the transition of the land.  To enjoy a cloudy night sky, cold wind, and a hot seat by the wood stove.  God is teaching me to love this place, but I still miss you.

Flightless Hope

Emily Dickenson famously said, “Hope is the thing with feathers,” but all feathers do not fly. 

Ostriches have feathers—watchful, proud, strong, fearless, violent creatures.   Often hope must be fearless, and violently protective to survive; it must snap at the first hint of threat.  It must run so swiftly with the wind, that flight seems possible, to endure the times the wind is silent, and the howls come only from the soul.  It must puff itself up to look regal, in stunning black and white, to stare down its beak with such a fierce look as to silence the pity that the eagle and the dove so quickly bestow.  The eye says—you will not make me your pawn; fly as high as you wish, I can break you with one clip of my mighty legs, one swipe of my angry beak.  Your pity is not welcome here—do not be so bold as to grieve for me in embrace.  For an embrace will surely mean death, to your throat and my grit. For valor I have, but restraint I can only contain for a while. 

The dove is meek and mild in her approach, and while she tries to empathize, her tears only incite her own comforting, and strength is expended, the little store wasted on one who is not the flightless party.

The kingly, majestic eagle looks down its nib as only a royal would do.  Knowing it may be no match for the ostrich’s strength, but the ostrich will never keep its young on a cliff, miles above all its prey.  It also pities the ostrich for its perilous young, stranded on the earth, with only its weak courage to protect them.  The eagle is cool and collected, knowing the ostrich has much to favor, and envy, but never saying so, as that would give way to maliciousness and cruelty.  It inclines its head in the ostrich’s direction, and nods its crown in respect to the weaker fowl.

The penguin is not commonly thought of as a feathery familiar, but it is.  It oft is overlooked for its merits as a bird—only thought of adoringly, with childlike virginity and wholesomeness.  It mates for life—a well-known, repetitively spoken fact.  But feathery friend or foe, the details bereft of this get foggy.  Their penguin suit is likened to formal wear, as these beasts of great character rightly deserve.  They know community like no sanctuary has ever seen—fishing with grace, diving with beauty, surrounded by peers and family alike.  The males dance in unison, wooing their females, laying claim to their young’s refuge and nest.  The penguin is not afraid to display himself foolishly for his love. For all this the penguin is the only one who really “gets” the ostrich.  No feathers, no flight, no soaring above the heights—but great courage is often shown in the differences between honor and ego.  And for that, if the penguin could, or ever would, the ostrich just might allow the smallest embrace, enfolded in the penguin’s chivalrous bosom, and let his tears of hope flow freely.  Because the hope of a penguin, and of an ostrich, is much smaller, and therefore a hardier substance.  The smallness of it often seems to disappear altogether—but it still exists, in a still small form that ebbs and flows with the tide.

If ______, Then___________.

This week’s Women’s Bible study, on Esther, was extremely powerful for me.  It challenged how most of the way that I live is based on fear.  Fear of failure, loss, hurt, success, or fear itself.  A few years ago I had night terrors on a regular basis.  I had them when I was younger, and was never able to tell anyone about them, because what I dreamed was so vivid and evil.  I guess I thought if I told anyone about what I dreamed, that would reflect on me somehow, or it would say that I was a bad person.  These night terrors were awful—the worst fear I have ever felt.  I would be immobilized by my fear; paralyzed in every sense of the word.  My whole body would be drenched in sweat, and I literally could not move a muscle, usually not even to wake Dave.  The dreams were usually about someone being in my house, about safety of myself and other family members.  I remember the dream I had when I was young very clearly; to this day I remember it to a T.  I had it over and over again for years.  It always involved my mom and I getting hunted down, sometimes by the betrayal of a friend. 

The Bible study today focused on the question, “What if fear was not involved in your decision making process.”  I immediately thought, “I would write more, read more, befriend more, put myself out there more, serve more, spend less time on appearances,” and on and on.  The Bible study leader said to do this fill in the blank.  If______, then_______.  We are supposed to fill in the first blank with one of our worst fears, and the second with what would happen to us, or what we would do, if that were realized.  This last week the devil has been trying to fill me with fear over my dad having malaria.  The devil seemed to whisper, “He may die, you may never see him again, he will never meet any of your future children!”  So this is the blank I chose to fill in, and it would go something like this.

            If my dad dies in Papua New Guinea, then my mom will fall apart.  I will fall apart.  My sisters and brothers will fall apart.  We will have to live in world where my father no longer exists. Where he was SUPPOSED to live to 80 something. He will never meet my children—he, the man who loves babies, will never tell him/her about how (s)he is a better swimmer/climber/bicycler/writer/math student             than his/her mother. He will never take them camping, or teach them to tell direction by the movement of the sun.  He won’t bend down on one knee in front of them and say, in his kind voice, “Ohhh, that’s ok,” when something of his gets broken, because he doesn’t care about things.  I will never hear my Daddy laugh again; he will never take my arm in his, he will never skip embarrassingly through             the grocery store park in lot with me holding his hand.  I will fall apart….and then I will slowly start to heal, piece by piece.  I will remember….the good times—when he took me on camping trips, taught me how to set up a tent, build a fire, rappel, hike, tried to teach me a sense of direction-and how to read a map, taught me to choose a man by his character.  I will remember him playing capture the flag with water guns on my 16^th birthday, and the speech he gave when I graduated high school, and his arm in mine as I walked down the isle on my wedding day—three events my friend Jenny did not get to experience with her dad.  And I will thank God profusely for allowing me to have a father that raised             me to love God, and who loved God himself, and ALL he wanted for his children, and THEIR children, was for them to do the same. 

And then fear is gone, and courage is in its place.  Because I know that “If______, then God .”  Because, as each challenge arises, our heavenly father is there, taking our hand, and heart in his, and giving us new strength and will that are not ours but his.  He will be there with courage to spare.  2 Tim. 1:7 “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but one of power, love, and sound judgment.”

missing leaves

A fav. photo of Island Park back in Bryson during the Fall

Mamma

Missin my Mamma today--wondering if she would like the writing I've been doing lately, if it would make her laugh.   Wondering if she would stare at the pile of dishes on my counter, or roll her eyes at the fact that the clothes I washed three days ago are still in the dryer--dry.  Thinking this is the time of year they usually go camping, and wondering if she's thinking of cooler days around a campfire.  I know we would share a laugh over the fact that half the plants I bought a few months ago are already dead--but that having half still alive is still a pretty big deal.  I wish I could call her up, and just chat about the weather, making friends, and how everyone is doing at home.  I miss you Mamma; can't wait to talk soon.