Cards and Notes

My new year’s resolution for 2024 was to send a card or note to someone every week of the year – 52 in all. Some weeks, I sent several, some weeks, none. But I was doing well with it, keeping up with my resolution on average, and enjoying it. 

Mama always wrote people to thank them for anything and everything – a plant, a visit, a bucket of peas, a job well done. People loved her notes and kept them. I recently saw one on a bulletin board where my niece works that Mama had written almost two years ago. It meant something to get a hand-written note from her. She also sent, without fail, birthday cards, Halloween cards (with music and motion!), and Christmas cards. 

Last December, when she had written all her Christmas cards, she chose the ones for this year and the stamps, too. We bought them and tucked them away in her desk. And here I am this December, sorting through her list, addressing the cards she would have sent, missing her. 

And my notes for 2024? After she died, I wrote at least 80 thank you notes, in addition to my little list of one note a week. People were so generous, so caring, so loving. And she would have wanted every one of them to have note, to be thanked. I learned from her how important that is, how special. And I am trying to live up to her teaching. 

And the Christmas card list is up to 72…..

 

Saving Summer

It was cold last night, frosty in spots here and there. The last tender vines of the winter squash and the peppers, unprotected in the vegetable garden, have frozen and withered. But the basil, even more tender, was sheltered at the back door, tucked into the kitchen garden, and this afternoon it was still bright and green, just as in the hottest days. Now I have cut it all down, and I will make pesto to freeze. Then in the deep of winter, we will have pesto dolloped on soup or mixed with pasta. And it will taste like summer. And it will remind us that warm days will come again.

 

Jesus in the Desk Drawer

My sister is in charge of the computer lab at an elementary school that is affiliated with one of the churches in the area. Yesterday she was away, and I filled in for her. There were four classes with students in grades two, three, and four. For the most part, all was well – only two little episodes of acting up. The children were polite, engaged with their projects, and comfortable with each other. 

When I opened the drawer of the teacher’s desk to look for a rubber band, I found a tiny Jesus figure. I don’t know if my sister put it there, if it was confiscated from one of the children, or if every teacher’s desk at that school comes equipped with one. It gave me a moment’s pause. I don’t expect to see Jesus when I open a desk drawer. The truth is that maybe I don’t except to see Jesus at all. 

But maybe I should. The first part of Mark 13 is the scripture for tomorrow. Later in that same chapter, Jesus cautions: “But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.” (Mark 13: 32-33) 

Lots of folks these days are looking for signs and omens, prophecies to be fulfilled. They are combing through the books of Daniel and Revelation, reading fiction about the rapture, and making much of world events. But according to Jesus, they are missing the point. No one knows that time. And in the meantime, we are to keep alert, to live as if Jesus is present in every place, which of course, he is. And he is present, not watching to catch us in our sins so we can be punished, but rather waiting to walk with us through this beautiful and broken world. 

So the next time I open a desk drawer, I will try to remember to look for Jesus. And I know that if I remember to look, if I seek, I will indeed find him.

 

Hope, part two

“In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection…” This phrase that has come to me in recent days is often included in a funeral liturgy. On those occasions, we take comfort in the promise of resurrection, we turn to the promise of life eternal, we remember that Jesus is “the resurrection and the life.” But I am lately thinking not so much about the “resurrection” part of the statement but rather what it has to say about hope: “sure and certain hope.” 

Really and truly, there is nothing sure and certain about hope. In fact, hope is the opposite of being sure and certain. Emily Dickinson wrote that 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - 

That perches in the soul - 

And sings the tune without the words - 

And never stops - at all - 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - 

And sore must be the storm - 

That could abash the little Bird 

That kept so many warm - 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - 

And on the strangest Sea - 

Yet - never - in Extremity, 

It asked a crumb - of me. 

“Hope is the thing with feathers.” Hope is a fragile little songbird that sings even when there is nothing to sing about. Hope is a thing that can be blown away or frozen in a bad patch of weather; hope is a song so quiet that it almost cannot be heard; hope is fragile and faint. Hope is not knowing, not seeing, not even believing, and still vowing to go on, still singing in the storm. Nothing is sure and certain about all that. 

To have “a sure and certain hope” is to have faith, to believe where you cannot see, to go on when you do not know the way, to love and trust when the world preaches revenge and retribution. 

And although I did not think I was pondering the “resurrection” part of this bit from the liturgy, maybe I really am. Resurrection is life coming eventually from what seems like death. Resurrection is God’s promise of restoration and renewal. Resurrection is a miracle, salvation coming out of violence and darkness and death. And resurrection is hope! So these days, as Wendell Berry instructs, I will try, in sure and certain hope, to "practice resurrection."

 

Hope!

 

Last year we had this enormous and beautiful spider who made her web at the fence by the horse pasture. Her web was maybe ten feet long. One side attached to tree branches, another side to the horse fence. There were other strands that anchored to other places.  And it was more than a one-sided web, at least two-dimensional, several layers of web to snare the unsuspecting insect. None of it looked very substantial, but the web lasted for what seemed to me to be a long time.  

 

One day I went out and she was gone.  But I was hoping that she left her egg sac, that her offspring would come back. And this year, they did -- not in the same place but close by with a web just as amazing.  And the next generation built a web just as amazing.  

 

One day soon, this next generation will be gone.  It is close to that season.  But I hope she will leave her egg sac, as her mother did, and that there will be another web next year.

 

And I remember from my Hebrew classes that the word for hope has its roots in the idea of spider web. So maybe it is built into those spiders’ nature to hope for nourishment, to hope for survival, to hope for next year. Maybe that is built into me, too.  And I hope their beauty lives on in the next generations, and that I have eyes to see that beauty and constancy. 

Rest in Peace, Sweet Manny

He was a good boy…. He came to me in Connecticut after a hard winter for him and a lonely time for me. He made the move with me to the farm in the south, and lived with the other cats, mostly in harmony. He so missed Mama. He was with her every day in the living room and was not really the same after she died. He just could not go on after today. I will miss him so much. But I am so thankful that my sister and brother helped me bury him on this farm where he lived his last years. 

These animals: They get so close to us and we love them. And they return that love without condition. Bless you on your way, sweet Manny.

http://pastormartha.blogspot.com/2008/02/manny-comes-home.html 
 

Bucket Brigade

We have a number of folks in our congregation who are members of the local volunteer fire department. That means that, if a siren sounds on Sunday morning, they get up and leave. I often pause and offer a prayer for them and whatever situation they are going to encounter. Sometimes it is a fire, sometimes a highway accident, sometimes a false alarm. Whatever it is, though, they respond willingly. 

A lot of folks I know are responding now to the heartbreaking needs of those in western NC affected by Hurricane Helene. Through some personal connections, people here have figured out how to get the right things to the right places to help those who have lost so much. They have made several trips, driving trailer loads of generators, kerosene heaters, coats and hats, and cooking equipment. Like our volunteer fire department, they are on the front lines, giving of themselves, taking risks, responding. 

Not everyone can do that, though – drop everything and respond to a fire call or drive to the mountains pulling a trailer. But most of us can do something. I’m thinking of the old-fashioned way of fighting fires, with a bucket brigade. One person at the source of the water filled the buckets, and they were handed down a line of people to the one on the front line, at the fire. Over and over, the buckets were filled and passed down the line, emptied and passed back to be filled again. It was a true team effort. 

Maybe our efforts to bring aid to the people in the mountains are like a bucket brigade. Many of those who can’t go in person have done the equivalent of filling a bucket and handing it on. They have donated money, coats and blankets, food, generators, and heaters. We aren’t all on the front lines, but we can still fill a bucket and pass it along, trusting that all the hands along with way will deliver what is needed to quench the suffering of so many.

 

Volunteers

Matt's Wild Cherry -- in October

Four summers ago, I started some tomato seeds of a variety named “Matt’s Wild Cherry.” The seeds did well, and I planted the seedlings in a straw bale in my kitchen garden. The plants were prolific, bearing clusters of tiny sweet tomatoes all summer and well into the fall. That winter, we dug up that part of the yard to put down some pavers. In the spring, though, there were tomatoes growing all around the new parking area. The next year: more tomato plants, coming up everywhere. This year, there were still more tomato plants, dozens of them! they are still sprouting here at the end of October. In the gardening world, these are called volunteers: plants that grow on their own without being deliberately planted. 

There is another kind of volunteer, of course. As the dictionary defines it: a person who freely offers to take part in an enterprise or undertake a task. I am a volunteer for several organizations in our area. It is deeply satisfying work, for the most part, and I hope that I am making a difference. 

I’m not a tomato, exactly, but like the volunteer plants in my yard, my own volunteering stems from the actions of others in seasons past. I grew up in a family where people stepped in and stepped up to do what was needed, freely and generously. I watched my parents give money to the church even when the crops were failing. My father gave time and attention as a board member of our small local hospital. My mother navigated the red tape of social security for a neighbor who could not do that on her own. When anyone was in trouble or needed emergency money or food, my parents always provided it, never expecting (and usually not receiving…) any reimbursement. My brother has been part of Angel Flights, piloting his small plane to take people to distant medical appointments. My sister has raised thousands – thousands! -- of dollars through our little church to benefit victims of domestic violence, families of those who are incarcerated, hungry children, and folks devastated by the hurricane. 

My brother, sister, and I are rooted in a culture of serving others. Like my everlasting tomato plants, we are volunteers, growing here not by our own efforts but from seeds planted long ago. I hope our little fruits are good and plentiful!

I told the bees.....

On Saturday, May 4, I bottled the first honey of the year from my hives. Mama and I talked about how beautiful it was -- a lovely light golden color.  She loved that we had hives, that the bees were here doing their work. She died the next Saturday, May 11.  And then I went to the tell the bees that she was gone.  

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Telling_the_bees