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.