Let Us Adore Him

I have loved many people in my life, but none quite the same as those four who spent their earliest months nestled and nurtured within me.  No matter when they first spoke or how clearly they wrote their names in wobbly capital letters or fearlessly/fearfully gained skills of autonomy, I was devoted for the very fact of their being.  As each grew I identified traits inherited from one or both parents that were always magnified into something so much better within a uniquely new human being.
The newness, separateness --  and yet connectedness -- has never changed, and is completely independent of anything they have ever done or said.  They have come from me and I am both lessened and increased because of their existence: each a splendidly distinct, miraculous gift.

These bonds are on my mind because I am missing them today and because God in His faithfulness and grace is using the silence to see the comparative meagerness of my efforts at love, and to draw me, helplessly, to ponder the Incarnation in a newer, deeper way.  
"She [Mary] will bear a Son, and you shall call His name Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins.  All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet, 'Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call His Name Immanuel (which means, God with us).'"
No wonder Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart.  For nine months as this child grew within her she must have daily wondered at the coming fulfillment of all the promises repeated through thousands of years of labored human existence under the heavy curse of sin.  The promise, repeated by generation after generation, of the lifting of the sentence of thorns and pain and death and separation from God.
God with us.

It is the deepest longing, isn't it?  Underneath the human successes, the family affections, all the spiritual endeavors, is the hunger of my soul that can only be satisfied in the presence of God.  Further compounding the bleakness of my estate are the offenses that not only pile up obstacles in relationships, but ultimately bar all access to the source of life and change and growth.  
And in that one birth the obstructions of sin were removed and He was with mankind.
God with us.  With me.

He did the work.
He cleared the way by becoming the way.
Such LOVE:  
To make me, pursue me, redeem me at the cost of hell itself, so that I could see Him, know Him, love Him, adore Him.

It is unfathomably, achingly splendid that God humbled Himself to take on the humanity of His own making in order to bring that wayward creation back to Himself!
But adoration has often been lost, for me, in the details of Christmas.
Oh, I have found it more blessed to give than to receive, and even stayed within a reasonable budget.  I have incorporated Bible verses in my cards and preferred carols over winter merriment jingles.  Christmas Eve, I maintain, is my favorite part of the season.  
But ever-so-subtly, the homemade soup and bread, the candlelight, the dulcet tones, and the string of beautiful, beloved faces in the pew next to me have distracted my affection from the point of it all.
Not because family, food and candlelight are bad things -- human love is surely the greatest earthly gift God has given -- but because my heart is prone to wander from the very thing it needs for life. 

God with us.  With me.
Such Love:  to seek me, save me, and  patiently draw me back ...to wonder and adore.

Why lies He in such mean estate,
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christians, fear,  for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me,  for you.
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
The babe, the son of Mary.

Leaning In

I remember the phone call fifteen years ago, with news so devastating that it physically bent my knees.  "Should I go?" I asked, tentatively --fearfully.  "If not you, then who?" was the bald challenge.  Driving the ten minutes to a house of sudden bereavement I metaphorically dragged my feet each mile.  "God, I don't know what to do, don't know what to say, don't want to be this close to this kind of pain.  Help me, please.  Send someone else.  I cannot do this."

A group of us had studied a book together about a family that barely survived the death of a child, and we assiduously noted the practical ways community kept these heartbroken members alive by bringing food and making arrangements and moving them through their days until they could begin to take wobbly steps all on their own.  But now the intellectual discussion had abruptly become a call to action.  

So I went.  And I wasn't as much comfort as company.  I said the wrong thing, was the wrong thing, most of the time.  Others went as well; many wiser in their ministrations than I.  From them I learned to close my mouth, stop bustling about, have tissues at the ready.  Being there meant sorting clothes or reminiscing or talking about a new book/movie or companionably pushing food around a plate.  And possibly crying through all of it.

It feels I have lived a lifetime since those days of joining together, working out a round-the-clock schedule to come alongside loss that was beyond comprehension, carrying out a commitment to not leave someone alone in the deep waters of grief.  They were "desperate times" calling for "desperate measures."
But human need is the same, whether the trial is a fiercely raging inferno or a nagging dull despair: people who know God's great love and mercy humble enough to show up, to walk beside, to be companions through days that take every effort just to keep breathing -- even with the wrong words, or at the wrong moments, or in the wrong ways.  

A currently popular philosophy admonishes taking all there is from life, pursuing each advantage and experience to the utmost.  The premise, as I understand it, is that you have to "lean in" to the opportunities.
But what if the truly great calling is to step closer to the hardship and devastation in the lives of those around us?  Not begun in a reluctant, begrudging attitude, but with the assumption that something vital and life-giving could be accomplished by that momentum?

I have been blessed to have people in my life who love well.  They are faithful with their prayers and faithful with their presence, particularly when this world seems to be most broken.
Their courage has deepened my faith in God, whose love equips and emboldens and empowers us to bear one another's burdens.  To enter into the pain.
To do the things we cannot.

If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that?

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love. In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us.

Thinking Aloud

Every human being has trials.  Every blessed man, woman and child of us.  
They look so different from one person to the next that it isn't always easy to remember similarities outweigh the distinctions.  For some, known physical deficiencies accompany birth, others are burdened by malignancies that creep up gradually or sudden injury that lasts a lifetime or a period that feels like a lifetime.  Trials are loneliness that has never eased, or heartbreak that empties a cup once overflowing with abundance of loving relationships.  Even deprivation of material substance brings a different kind of testing, a heaviness that often weighs down a life.  
Each experience can isolate, weaken, hinder.  And somehow, it is always unexpected when the locusts swarm the fields, and stay for years.  

Concerned for the vulnerability of students I love, this was the focus of my graduation address in the spring:
"'Do not be surprised at the fiery trials.'  Right living does not erase the brokenness of this world.
There is no guarantee that Christ's righteousness on your behalf is an armor against disappointment, grief or even devastation.   But those are the times when you will know God to be your refuge and your strength -- a very present help in time of trouble.
This is amazing news.  Your greatest triumphs will be when you are emptied and weak and a beggar.  When all of your merit is stripped away and you know your own helplessness,  God will be near to you.  He will supply His strength, so that the boasting will all be 'the Lord has done great things for me.'  Those are moments of true, refining gold making. 
God made you, uniquely fitted you to do something great.  You will fall and fail.  BUT in those times you will find the true accomplishments of your lives.  Each of us needs a Redeemer of our soul and our life...in all its motives and minutes."

They were true words six months ago, and are so today.
And yet.
Trials (fiery, or run-of-the-mill-garden-variety-type) often encase me in a fog of me.
Having never been an insect, I am led by numerous readings of Charlotte's Web to surmise that a fly stunned into inertia by a spider feels similarly the numbness which renders a binding web and imminent demise to be things barely worth a wriggle or twitch.
I'm thinking that isn't my purpose.
Actually, I am increasingly convinced that God doesn't "supply the strength" in order for me to feign death until my enemy loses interest.  The "great things He is doing" must describe more than my living a few years just holding my breath. 
Then, truth came as a micro-adjustment to the focus of my heart this week.
From two separate sermons from two separate pulpits from two separate decades I heard that God brings us through trials in order to equip us to serve.
Hmm.
Wow.
I like imagining the muscle building accomplished during a fiery time might be used to pry a heavy beam off of another pilgrim further on.  That seems a much more valuable outcome than semi-conscious, web-bound survival.
And perhaps God even brings us joy in the middle of our trials through our serving.  Although the end goal is not my happiness, surely James was alluding to something worthwhile when he encouraged believers to consider the aspect of joy within the context of faith-testing times.

It might be that these opportunities to focus on something other than the roaring wind and the rising waves provide that elusive way to "turn our eyes upon Jesus."

And if not, 
...it still seems a more worthwhile way to pass the time.


Lead on, O King eternal,
till sin's fierce war shall cease,
and holiness shall whisper
the sweet amen of peace.

For not with swords' loud clashing
or roll of stirring drums,
but deeds of love and mercy
the heavenly kingdom comes.

Extraordinary Palette

I planted seeds this year: started some in January, diagrammed a garden and followed a rigid schedule.  In my mind's eye, everything would be staggered by height and color and blooming time. It was a lovely plan. A goodly plan, as it used to be said.
The particular dahlias I longed for were out-of-stock four days after they went up for purchase, so I haphazardly, frantically, chose new ones before there were none of my fifth and sixth choices.  They sprouted before I had them in the ground and the hardier of the feeble stems grew to be trampled by a skulking garden beast or two.  Sweet peas and stock were nibbled by something smaller, while rapid growth of a tree above turned a sunny spot into something less to be desired than the full beams required by the larkspur.
All in all, not exactly a win.  
I philosophically reasoned that the seedlings had carried me through a bleak January and February and perhaps served a different purpose than the one I had intended.  Still, the palette would have been extraordinary...
However, the flower farm that shipped my brown paper package of potential also included two complimentary offerings.  Not to be wasteful, I hastily sowed them in the last portion of available soil and thought (in my grandmother's words), now we shall see what's what.

And see I did.
Because zinnias flamed salmon where no stock or larkspur or sweet pea would show a hint of their cultivated vintage hues -- abundant shaggy spheres that rivaled the dahlia strains unavailable from my top three varieties.  Those substituted fifth and sixth choices were the colors of the setting sun after a day of perfect cornflower blue skies.  I have yet to know the pigment of the final plant which is covered in buds, as yet unopened.
Most mystifying was a pod termed "Hyacinth Bean", which came devoid of any description.  As the spade shaped reddish-blue leaves flourished I wondered if that was the sole achievement of all the plant's twining and climbing effort. Never thinking to look it up, I watched the unfolding surprise as it took over more than its portion of the space.  It was sufficient in its beauty to need no flower.  
Until flowers came and it seemed as if the whole was incomplete without the sprays of variegated pinks and dainty purples that almost seemed an afterthought.

There is much to capture my heart in this unlooked for bounty -- too much of God for me to miss His love.  
He is not hindered by drought.
He is not thwarted by shade.
He is not helpless under the attack of marauders or hampered by neglect.
Instead, He brings life and beauty in the most unlikely ways.

Always.

Thus says the Lord,
who makes a way in the sea,
a path in the mighty waters...
"Behold, I am doing a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?"
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
...for I give water in the wilderness,
rivers in the desert,
to give drink to my people, the people whom I formed for myself
that they might declare my praise.

Great Gain

She whirled through the front door, ahead of her grandmother -- if "whirled" is apt for one striking such a determined path.  It had been three years since the duo chanced upon our shop, caught up in the back-to-school rush, bringing that first pack for embroidery, because embroidery is what you call putting names and pictures on things with thread and our sign said that we did embroidery so is that right that we could put her name on?  
Please?  
This year I judged her lanky frame to have hit the third grade mark and I wondered if the grandmother might not after all be a great-grandmother.  Whatever the generational gap, she was definitely the authority and the girl yielded enthusiasm and energy almost seamlessly when the white haired woman spoke.

"Not a new backpack this year, because the bright yellow one with the turquoise name is still plenty big enough and has a lot of wear left in it.  But something new above the letters?  An animal maybe?  How about a kitty?"

"Or a wolf," asserted the bean pole as she looked the embroiderer directly in the eye.
"Do you have a wolf?"
Finding none that could be made small enough for a front pocket of a school bag she cheerfully acquiesced to the limitations.  
"A cat is good, too."

I wanted to hug her.
I also wanted to follow them around a bit because it soothed something in me to see the way she slipped the load out of her companion's arthritic hands, and hovered with the door open just long enough for the limping form to slip through. What had been given up and what had been gained by both parties to this unconventional alliance?  Surely the cost and benefit were incalculable, but perhaps the hindsight of years is necessary to the perceived value in loss of freedom to young and old.

The last stop was the thread display and four vivid shades were painstakingly discussed and evaluated against the athletic gold background.  Finally one was selected, with a concluding apology for the time spent.
"Ashlynn's a girl of all different colors," was the prosaic summary of a woman whose appearance hinted that life hadn't offered much in the way of poetry.  

Indeed she is.
Maybe I was accepting of disappointment when I was eight years old, but I don't think so.  I know it is not my tendency still at this stage of life.  When things can't conform to my projection of balance and beauty I make a massive mental mud puddle out of the perceived calamity, sit down in it, and twist my arms.   
What would a wolf mean to a nine-year old who seemed instinctively to pitch her volume and sharpen her enunciation for another?  
How might that image of beautiful strength intersect with the morass of a new grade at a new school?
Was she intrigued by the wildness? the peculiarity?  

"A cat is good, too."  

Strength & Victory

Ever since my body was smashed up pretty badly I live with a certain level of discomfort.  I truly live with it, as in, I don't really notice.  When I hear a snappish tone accompanying my speech I am learning to take inventory.  Sure enough, something is throbbing/tight/weak -- more than usual.  And then, I step back and acknowledge that regular life is a little difficult for me right now and I have to grab a heating pack/stretch/sit down.

I visited a doctor lately who tested three things in a row that should have elicited a complaint.  He said as much.  

"I don't really pay attention to it," I replied.  "I guess I have just adjusted."

In this particular case, my stoicism allowed an infection to grow for almost seven months.  And infections don't just cause damage to the immediate area -- they deplete the whole body and leave it vulnerable.  

Well.

I think doctors are great and antibiotics are great and I am looking forward to regaining health.  In the meantime, I am pondering this whole weakness subject. Again.

I'm not a strong person.

I am not an excellent wife or a good mother or an honoring daughter.  I am not a respectable church member or an inspiring employer or a stalwart friend.

I would like to be -- or be known to be.

Sometimes I have the faith to live out the truth I know, in spite of all my failings.  "Let the weak say 'I am strong in the strength of the Lord.'" Most days or moments I am hindered, caught up, entangled in the pride that says my own worthiness matters.  And then I am swirling in the endless drain of maintaining the facade ...to myself most of all.

If I don't acknowledge my inability, how can I overcome?

The poor in spirit inherit the kingdom of God because they know they bring nothing.

Those who mourn are comforted because they have no other hope.

The last are first because they can never get there on their own.

It might look more holy to tough it out and act the part when my life intersects another's.  But I am failing most days.  And I need Christ most days -- or all is lost.  I don't think I can tell the story of His faithfulness if I don't describe in some measure my helpless estate.

When I admit my brokenness and huddle before Him, I am in His Presence -- the only place there is fullness of joy.  It is the spiritual submission of myself for examination, the diagnosis of an invasive infection, and the subjection to whatever means of healing and restoration.  And it must be done regularly or I will accept the status quo of a standard that falls far short of health.

These are the things I want to remember, as carefully as the antibiotic to be taken every eight hours, around the clock (for which I have set an alarm).  

Joy that dawns with the morning is sweeter because it is the promise that sustains through weeping that endures for a night.  A garment of praise is more extravagant because it is an exchange for the spirit of heaviness.  If I hold out empty, beggar hands, the riches that fill them to overflowing will unmistakably reflect the glory of the Giver...the purpose for which I was created, redeemed and am being refined. 

Jesus! What a strength in weakness--
Let my hide myself in Him. 

Tempted, tried, and often failing

He my strength, my victory wins.

Hallelujah! What a savior! Hallelujah! What a friend! Saving, helping, keeping, loving: He is with me to the end.

If I Plant A Dahlia

For my part, I am partial to the dahlia.  It is, in some respects, like the younger sister in a novel of manners:  passed over in favor of the traditional beauty for which the rose is renowned. But the rumpled profusion of color compels me with informal charm.  No introductions to be made, no ceremony to stand on -- it is a flower frank with loveliness.
I have never grown dahlias, but aspired to this very year.  I ordered four tubers from a respected farm, a hefty investment in a first attempt.  The expected range for shipping marked on my calendar, I awaited the parcel.  Meanwhile, I collected the proper household compost to fortify soil and finally tucked the delivered brown paper package away in a cool, dry, dark place until the established planting day.  My dismay on May 10th was profound, because the mailer was cramped with pale twisted forms of attempted, stifled, premature growth.  I planted them anyway, despite the fact that only one was able to head upward without first needing to execute a u-turn with its warped white stem.  I watered, hoped, and whooped it up when green leaves appeared on four upright stalks.  Over time the runt worried me, but my confidence climbed as the largest attained a robust height of eighteen inches, robed in a profusion of deep green leaves and the hint of a bud. 
And then, last week, I checked the weather through the window overlooking my new flower bed and saw my pride and joy lying broken on its side, stem trampled by some marauding beast.  When I finally accepted the horizontal condition of things, I dunked the torn stalk into a 32-ounce Ball jar and propped the wilted leaves within a sheltered nook.  It was the only thing I could think to do to give those buds just a little more time to mature.  After three days with no visible improvement (unless I squinted very hard) I dumped potting soil into the water to provide nutrients. And then I waited. 
I think the Bible uses garden analogies to apply truth immediately -- shallow soil, fruit bearing plants, trees flourishing near water -- but also to firmly fix our minds on the depth of knowledge to be drawn from contemplation of growing things. Yesterday I told God I was finished.  Wilted unto death.
I need help, I said.  Hope, I corrected myself.  Divine intervention -- because my human effort is all used up with absolutely no source for restocking.  This bruised reed has been pulverized.
All through the night I drooped -- fear and sadness and guilt and regret weighing on me while snatches from the Psalms reverberated the same cries through the millennia of recorded time.  
With morning there was hope for relief.  It was Sunday, after all, and surely God would be faithful to meet with me.  I was taking Him at His word -- going where two or three were gathered in His Name...believing He would be there.  Still, I composed a text to a friend, through tears:  Please pray.  I'm not okay.
Waiting on the front porch with my 87 year old mother-in-law we spent our last ten minutes before departure in consultation over the Ball jar contents.
"Do you think," I hesitated, "I should cut off all the large lower leaves so that no energy is wasted?"  
"I guess.  It couldn't hurt," she encouraged.  "Just be careful you don't snip a bud."
That done, I cocked my head at the results.  "What if I shortened the stem -- so that the water has less distance to travel?"
"It might work," was her doubtful assessment, followed by the suggestion -- "Maybe you should put it out in the rain so the leaves get soaked."

And God was there in worship.  And in a picnic lunch just three of us.  And in an afternoon visit with friends whose family has expanded from two to five through miraculous provision.  

This evening, while taking her walk up and down the driveway before bed, my mother-in-law called out to me.
"Have you seen your dahlia?"
"Oh, no," I breathed out.  "Is it worse?  Did it die?"
She pointed, and we both grinned as I clapped and jumped up and down like a pogo rider.
It was strong and straight and green.  At least for today.

But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head.

I cried aloud to the Lord, and he answered me from his holy hill.

I lay down and slept; I woke again, for the Lord sustained me.  Psalm 3

Straining Gnats

It's an odd thing to be a human being in the spring.  We feel the pulses of growth, catch the invigorating whiff of life, and become giddy at the clear cornflower daytime sky or the deep navy of night.
In sunny moments we soak it in, and in stormy sessions we observe the grass and weeds lengthen almost visibly.
We are impacted, yet buffered by the boxes we live, work and travel within.  Artificially controlled brightness and temperature distance us from the vibrancy, but the underlying rhythm taps time to the pulse in our wrist and when we lay a finger across we are surprised by the insistence of it, the regularity, the truth.

God's love is like Spring, I think.  It comes with brilliant life-giving light, it douses with torrents of nourishing hydration, it anchors and envelops in growth.
I am in existence and will remain so because of Love.
Nothing more; nothing less.  I was made, redeemed and am being transformed (ever-so-slowly) by the Eternal God who is glorified when I trust His promises and heedlessly plummet into the depths of His great affection for me.

Thinking about the high bar in 1 John that charges me to imitate God's charity, I want to brush it aside as impossible and go on with the status quo.
Within relationships, it's just common sense to reciprocate with distance and parameters - with careful regard for my own precious personhood - frugally measuring out a proportionate degree of warmth and vulnerability.

Like God with me?

What if I don't observe propriety?  What if I eschew decorum?  What if I ignore the signals to keep my distance?  What if I am the first to love?

God is, as Francis Thompson says, the Hound of Heaven, who pursues me, even as I flee His Presence.

How can I claim to believe such an eclipsing statement as God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son...and yet maintain barriers based on peripheral distinctions?  How can I settle for divisions, whatever the social or theological distance?
As with the boxes that enclose our lives perhaps I have forgotten that shelters are for the purpose of safety from high winds, lightning and freezing cold -- not to regularly barricade me from the creation of which I am an element: important, but still only one part.

I wonder if  Aslan's great laugh and the Eldil who flashed with reflected light...or the inhabitants of Rivendell, resplendent in their nobility were intended by Lewis and Tolkien to catch our attention and turn us in wonder to worship the pulsing Glory that is able to make all things new.  
Worship -- and grow, battered image bearer though I be.

To love my enemies is dangerous.  
To bless those who curse me is imprudent. 
To keep no record of wrongs is not safe in the least.

"There remain faith, hope, love -- these three.  But the greatest of these is love."

Encircled

Here's to the mothers
Soul lovers
Warm faces, sweet spaces
Filling with yearning
Burning for turning
     Crooked to right.

Cheers for those givers
Swift rivers
Strong holding, staunch molding
Sturdy for making
Gifted with breaking
     Clean paths of flight.

Toast beauty grateful
Those faithful
Heads lowered -- steps forward
Graven with tilling
Emptied for filling:
     Light unto light.

Muddy Days

It was a hard week.

I know when the waves of grief have covered my feet and the tide is rising I need to look up -- lift my eyes to the hills.  I know where my help comes from.  But six days in a row sadness was like a terrible wound from which I kept my eyes averted lest the immensity engulf me.

I spent time digging in the garden, parceling out tasks in the time slots designated rain-free according to my trusty weather app.  I was soaked regularly.  However, the plodding labor with visible results exhausted my body and rested my mind.  As I cultivated the soil and adjusted the alignment of the border for the umpteenth time I grimaced at the disheveled spectacle I presented to folks driving by.  Still, the muddy clothes and sopping hair were evidence of work being done, which is never a pretty sight when I'm involved.
I want a picture perfect garden and life, and frankly I would prefer that it occur without my hands becoming blistered or my shoes drowned.  I'd love to sip lemonade and wave at the crew that moves efficiently across the property creating harmony, order and beauty -- unimpeded by a cracked shovel handle or a flat wheelbarrow tire.

Two people came into my life during this week -- uncovering burdens that rival mine, should I be foolish enough to compare.  We cried together, and recounted truth that we know about God, even though nothing else makes sense.  The weight of their suffering did not ease mine, but their beautiful examples of joy and peace in the middle of devastation bewildered me ...and gave me confidence that trials are truly working an eternal weight of glory. 
And this morning a bedraggled group of pilgrims paused to rest and break bread together, emptying pockets to lay out the treasures found along the journey.  We shared those riches, as we shared the reality of the bleakness and brokenness that some days cripples our climb.  Together our voices were strengthened to affirm, "My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.  He will not allow your foot to be moved; He who keeps you will not slumber."

When I live out loud I tell a more complete story -- a real story.  And all the people who have seen me covered in muck, bawling at the overloaded cart just might pause to marvel at the glorious dahlias...and look up.

"Though You slay me
Yet I will praise You
Though You take from me
I will bless Your Name
Though You ruin me
Still I will worship
Sing a song to the One who is all I need...
You're enough for me."
Shane & Shane

Reclamation Ramblings

The itchy yellow micro dust that dulls windows, cars and patio furniture cannot diminish the degree with which I embrace Spring.  A scrub brush with a muddy drip pattern becomes an additional fixture to the sink.  Our wheelbarrow, pitchfork and two rakes take up permanence in the driveway with the arrogance of the family car.  Like Monday morning, it all seems possible with a new go-around.  Potential abounds.

This month the double-petal ruffled tulips were not beheaded by the lawn mower or the rabbits, and bloomed for the first time since they were nestled below the trellis three years ago.  I had forgotten the promised extravagance of the bulb package, and was surprised by the outlandish garb in so common a garden as mine.
Other plantings, expertly installed by a landscaper before our time, ran amok a decade ago and have been systematically left to rot, ruin and the winnowing hook modernly termed "weed whacker".  Lacking the energy or ambition I protested only in the mildest way as our property became a merged buzz cut of the green stuff bundled under the label of "lawn".

This year, I set out to reclaim the front garden.
Finding the woven carpet too dense for a spade, I perforated and pried pitchforked segments -- shaking free the soil and piling to cart away.  At times it seemed the work of reverse sodding, or harvesting sod, if anyone wanted bulbs and weeds and wildflowers all coming in a strip of "lawn".  The worms appeared awfully glad to see me, as if they were afraid they wouldn't be able to make it to the surface this year without some assistance.  They abound. 
When I finally unearthed the brick border I reluctantly acknowledged its awkward placement, and set about excavating each rectangle until I had enough to create a curving line parallel to the front of the house, rather than leaving it all akimbo.  Of course, another twenty square feet of "harvesting" was then required.  All poetry had, by that point, gone out of the vinca, violet and crabgrass marriage.  It was prosaic work.  But it is nearly done.

Next week I am going to trust the Farmer's Almanac and put out one hundred and twelve flower seedlings.  Poppies, larkspur, sweet pea, zinnia, chocolate lace, cress and dahlias will take their places in the rows I assigned them during the dreary days of February.

I have nothing to say about God. 
Except,
He must love me extravagantly to let me dig around in the dirt, cleaning things up, clearing things out, and restoring a space so that beauty can grow.
Anything else is too obvious for words.

Late Larkspur

For Christmas this year, a sweet friend gifted me with an introduction to a flower farm in the state of Washington.  Embarking on a new venture, I am attempting to grow eight varieties of heirloom strains. 
To date, I have planted apricot stock, Victorian larkspur, blush sweet peas and sherbet poppies.  The recycled cardboard wombs are lined along my bedroom wall (which boasts the largest window with appropriate sun exposure). 
Every morning and evening I anxiously check for signs of dryness or, conversely, saturation leading unto mold.  I turn the beds one-quarter of a turn every day in order to strengthen the stems.  Carefully brushing my hand across the tops of the little sprouts was suggested in a how-to video I watched, encouraging a robust nature in the plants.
I am religiously compliant.
As with anything that grows, spiritual applications abound.  However, the one that boosted my flagging steps this morning was nestled within the larkspur batch.
For two weeks, three of the soil-filled plots revealed only soil on my sunrise and sunset examinations.  I watered them with the rest of the batch, but had recently begun to question the expenditure of resources, both water and time.  Still, I ran the white pitcher slowly down every row, pausing to let each small hollow fill.  But it seemed so futile in those parched, empty little two inch squares...

Today, a sprout emerged. 
It was running late, to be sure, but as solidly green and alive as anything I could hope to see.  I rocked back on my heels, watering vessel raised aloft, and just stared.

I had believed that water was being provided to the seed I knew I had planted, but I had stopped thinking the seed would actually produce life. 
Like my belief in the goodness of God, and the confidence that His promises are true, going through the motions had become the testimony of my faith, without a corresponding expectation in my heart.

Hope hurts.  It is painful to wait.
The Israelites were exiled forty years in the wilderness before they gained the promised home of Canaan.  But they were brought, at last, to a land flowing with milk and honey.
I tended the remaining vacant lots with renewed excitement.  It was an amazing prelude to a bountiful Sunday that focused on repentance and the abundance of the gospel -- on the Lord and Giver of life.

Behold, I am doing a new thing;
    now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
    and rivers in the desert.