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

 

October 4, 1998

Today is the 25th anniversary of my ordination as Minister of Word and Sacrament. It has been 25 years of joy and sorrow, celebration and consolation. I have been privileged to be part of weddings, funerals, baptisms, communion. Countless church meals; hundreds – maybe a thousand – sermons; home and hospital visits. Gifted partners in ministry. Blessings too numerous to know. Some heartbreak, some disappointment, some conflict. But the overall feeling is joy – all joy. I am so grateful for this blessing, for these years, for this ministry.

 

The Small Things

My brother has a grass landing strip on the farm that he uses when he flies his plane. It is about a mile up and back and always nicely mowed. I walk there most mornings with my dog, Buddy. 

There are lots of folks in the working world -- corporate and academia -- who advocate for seeing the “big picture,” and I suppose that is often good advice. Those who are “down in the weeds” can get so caught up in the details that they often miss the important things. I don’t disagree with that view. 

But walking the runway gives me a different perspective. Yes, there is the big picture – golden morning sun, big beautiful blue sky, green bean fields row upon row. But there are also the small things, down in the weeds. There are hundreds of tiny spider webs draped on the grass. They sparkle in the dew like silk snowflakes. Most of them are less than an inch or two in size, and when the sun is high in the sky, they melt away. But in the early morning, there they are, some upright like little sails, some like tiny bowls, and some draped haphazardly, flung on blades of grass. And there are hundreds of little unseen creatures that made these beautiful webs. What do they catch in them? I don’t know, but it must be enough to sustain them. 

And there are also tiny, tiny flowers deep in the mown grass. Their blossoms are almost too small to be noticed.  Do they set seed now in preparation for next summer? Do the bees come to them? I don’t know that either. 

But I do know that there is such beauty in the world, all around – overhead and underfoot – some of it grand and glorious, and some of it tiny and precious. Thanks be to God!

 

Leadership Lessons From The Farm (as applied to church perhaps...)

Lesson 1: Don’t stand behind a horse. 

Sometimes it is dangerous to be in the back. The folks might get too far out in front. You could be left in the dust.  Or they might decide to kick, or kick-back. And there might be a big mess back there that is best just left behind. 

Lesson 2: Don’t stand in front of a beehive. 

Sometimes it is dangerous to be in the front. The folks might feel you are in their way, not respecting their pathways. They might decide to defend their territory by attacking, stinging with words or worse. Bottom line: Each situation is different. Sometimes you are dealing with a horse; sometimes, with a colony of bees. Sometimes you need to in front, leading the way, staying out of the muck. Sometimes you need to be in back, following, observing, moving carefully and gently. In any case, the wisdom lies in choosing the place that honors the situation and keeps you safe. 

And a third lesson: If you are with the farm dog, just try to keep up! Enjoy the walk, have a little fun, follow his nose, and go places together!

 

Horse and beehive!

Hair

I’m sure I fretted about my hair when I was in high school, but I don’t much remember it. I had a basic style, parted on the side, tucked behind my ears, and teased a bit on the top and back, probably lots of hair spray! In college, I let it grow long. After that, somewhere along the way I adopted a kind of page-boy with a side part, and that was my hair style for a long, long time. I didn’t fuss with it, just wash and dry, regular trims, no big deal. Then I had to have chemo, and suddenly my hair – or its impending loss -- seemed like a very big deal. When it started to come out, my friend shaved my head. I got a wig, but mostly I wore scarves that the women at my church taught me to tie. When my hair grew back, I left it short. And after a second round of chemo a dozen years after the first, it stayed short, a basic wash-and-go style. 

For all of my lack of expertise with hair-styling, I’ve had some notable experiences over the years. When they were in high school, two of my young friends asked me to do their hair for prom, and it turned out fine (miracle of miracles!). One of those young women later asked me to do her hair for her wedding day. We practiced in advance, and I was able to do what she wanted. And then, she got her hair cut before the wedding. My heart was in my throat as I was figuring out what to do, but it all worked out somehow. She was beautiful, and she would have been beautiful regardless of what I did with her hair! 

Several months ago, I started “fixing” Mama’s hair after she shampooed it. As I got more practice and was doing okay with it, I felt a little more confidence. And then she could not make her last salon appointment, so I got out my good fabric scissors and cut it. It isn’t perfect, but it isn’t awful either. 

I am mindful of her hair and thankful that I can help her with it. And I am thankful, too, that Jesus is also mindful of it. “Even the hairs of your head are all counted,” he says, and it comforts me to know that he is paying even more attention to her hair than I am!

 

Funeral Procession

I officiated at a funeral last week. The drive from the funeral home to the cemetery was almost 30 miles, and we slowly drove. It was a lovely day, driving by corn fields and blueberry farms, small churches, general stores, and crossroads. There is a custom here -- and maybe elsewhere, too -- that drivers meeting a funeral procession pull over and stop. Not everyone does that, but many do. On Friday as we made our way to the cemetery, people driving tractors, work trucks, cars, and pickups pulled over until we passed. This little tribute is very moving to me, total strangers pausing to honor the dead. Maybe it is an acknowledgement, too, that we will all end our days, and that we would hope for others to stop and honor our lives. And I was reminded of some lines of poetry: 

Because I could not stop for Death – 

He kindly stopped for me – 

The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 

And Immortality. 

We slowly drove –  He knew no haste 

And I had put away 

My labor and my leisure too, 

For His Civility – 

 … 

Emily Dickinson