Morning Walk

After I took Rejoice to work this morning, I took a walk around town, snapping photos of what I saw there, as well as what I saw on my way home and in my own front yard. 

Rabbit the Lamb, named because when he came to us, he wasn't much bigger than a rabbit, and he kinda looked like one. 

Lewis the Dog, named after C.S. Lewis

A neighbor plowing his field.

A neighbor's sheep grazing.

One of the local Amish one-room schoolhouses.

A buggy tied to the rail at the local grocery. 

In the woods during my walk. I saw a bunch of deer near this spot. 

A sign and display near the grocery. 

The gorgeous trees lining the street in town.

::: ode to the cherry tree :::

Blow-Up

Our cherry tree
Unfolds whole loads
Of pink-white bloom -
It just explodes.

For three short days
Its petals last.
Oh, what a waste.
But what a blast.

~X. J. Kennedy

When we bought our first piece of property in a rural county eight and a half years ago, one of the first things I did was take seriously author Gene Logsdon's advice to plant fruit trees first. I ordered a selection of bareroot dormant saplings from Schlabach's Nursery and waited. Our good friend Richard, who had sold us the property, came with a tractor and auger attachment and dutifully dug holes where I pointed, which I then filled with organic junk--manure, peat, sawdust--and I was ready for my trees to arrive. 

When they came, life was moving a bit too fast, so I followed the instructions, keeping what looked like dead sticks moist and cool. I couldn't believe, looking at these things, that they would ever actually be trees. And I was right, for some of them. The nectarine and one plum never did grow. One peach tree filled with peaches last summer and then, before they ripened, before the promise of peach jam and peach pie, they all withered and the tree died. It stands there still. I haven't yet had the heart to cut it down. I kept hoping that, this year, in the face of all that is obvious, it would still bloom and produce fruit, but it has not. 

The cherry tree, however, which was actually planted very first and came not from Schlabach's Nursery but from a greenhouse sale the very first year we were here, was planted in the fall of 2000 and has grown into a fine and beautiful tree. It's called a Hedelfingen Cherry tree and is supposed to produce sweet cherries. Unfortunately, we haven't really had much fruit from it, and the cherries are not large and sweet, but small and light in color. I planted a companion for this tree in hopes of providing a pollinator, but that tree hasn't grown so well and even had to work hard to recover from the damages caused by renegade goats. 

But the blooms on the Hedelfingen tree are beautiful, and when I look out my kitchen window to see the bursts of white inviting the bees to come and feast, my heart knows that it's spring. It asks me if I'd like to stop what I'm doing, pack a picnic lunch, and relax beneath its boughs. 

I'm so glad that I took Mr. Logsdon's advice. I do hope to come up with a good pest prevention program, as my poor trees are constantly attacked by every aphid and curculio there can possibly be, but, still, the benefits of beauty remain. 

Follow Mr. Logsdon's advice. Do yourself and the bees a favor. Plant a fruit tree today! 

::: a walk on the trail :::

SPRING!

A Lamb by Any Other Name

A couple of weeks ago, Monet was given a little lamb to raise. Monet thought the scrawny runt looked more like a rabbit and, in fact, I've held rabbits that have weighed more, so the bundle of wool and blood and goo was given the name Rabbit. Six times a day, Monet feeds Rabbit from a bottle, a task that takes just minutes per feeding. Rabbit guzzles down the warm liquid and nuzzles the baby bottle for more. Now that he's older, he's become much like Mary's lamb, following Monet everywhere he goes, acting more like a dog than a farm animal. When the children run out to play, there's Rabbit, hopping and leaping along, kicking his feet up under himself and twisting in the air. When I see him, I can't help reciting this poem:

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee,

Gave thee life, and bade thee feed

By the stream and o’er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing, wooly, bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee:

He is called by thy name,

For He calls Himself a lamb,

He is meek, and He is mild,

He became a little child;

I a child, and thee a Lamb,

We are called by His Name.

Little lamb, God bless thee!

Little lamb, God bless thee!

Poem by William Blake

Would ya take a look at that!

When that March wind blows strong, and the temperature climbs out of the winter depths, and the buds of the silver maples appear, I pull on my mud boots and venture out into the gardens for a peek on their progress. I don't dare even breath the word "Spring" until I see this:

That, my friends, is the reality of Spring. That is the promise of baked potatoes, fresh summer salads, creamy soups and sour-cream scrambled eggs. There is a truth in chives that's unarguable, unmistakable, and when I see them thrusting their green lives into the first sign of warmth, I know that what they're saying is a fact; winter is almost over, my love. Asparagus, arugula, romaine and sweet peas are not far behind. And then comes nasturtiums, hollyhocks, marigolds and leeks. And THEN, you KNOW it's not long before eggplants and summer squash and tomatoes and watermelons!

And this year? Because I chose very deliberately not to be a lazy bum last Fall, I happily discovered a beautiful, neat row of this in my veggie garden today:

Do you know what that is? Do ya? Do ya? It's GARLIC! My very first crop of garlic ever, after several unsuccessful and half-hearted attempts at planting the fabulously delicious and absolutely necessary bulbs, I've finally got garlic!

How could life possibly get any better than that?

Learning About Myself through Others

Have you ever noticed that when you think you're in a position to teach someone, or comfort someone, or change someone's life, you end up being taught, comforted or changed in ways you didn't expect? I've had this happen several times in my life, so I don't know why it comes as such a surprise to me that it has happened again.

The first time that I can recall this happened was when a very dear friend and mentor of ours was diagnosed with Leukemia at the age of 60. When we found out that this amazing, robust, artistic man had received such grim news and had immediately been admitted the hospital for aggressive treatment, my first thought was, "What can I possibly offer him?" I hadn't experienced such illness in my life. As a matter of fact, I'd only really had to go through the death of one family member, my grandmother, and I'd been too young to fully understand what was happening.

But here was a man who had been like a father to my husband, had welcomed him into his home during a particularly rocky time in his life, and had offered himself as a spiritual guide. He had seen us through no small difficulties and witnessed some of the ugliest moments of our lives. He had given us so very much. What could we possibly offer? So for quite some time--a week? a month? I can't quite recall--I resisted visiting him in the hospital. I felt so guilty, and yet I couldn't bring myself to do any differently.

It was just before Easter, and my two young children had been busily decorating egg-shaped cupcakes. They turned out so beautifully that I had an idea. The children and I would brighten our friend's day with a plate of these festive Easter cupcakes. So, on a warm Spring day, I loaded the children into the car, my belly swollen with the second trimester of pregnancy, and we made the trek to the hospital to see our friend for the first time since his diagnosis.

Reed was so vibrant, even in the final stages of his cancer, but one thing he absolutely could not do was eat. He had lost quite a bit of weight, and just the idea of food made him queasy. As a result, our cupcakes were useless and I, likewise, felt useless, too.

But as I sat in my awkwardness, desperately searching for something to offer my friend, reminding a four- and five-year-old not to touch that, and not to climb there, Reed did something amazing. He comforted me. He shared his thoughts, and his peace, and his joy with me, and he let me know that he was content with what the Lord was doing in his life, and that I should be, too.

I walked away from the hospital room that day in such awe that this man, who I had sought to comfort, had ended up comforting me.

Three months later, on the due date of my third child, I stood with Reed's wife and other loved ones as Reed took his last breath on this earth and stepped into eternity with God. As I stood there on that Thursday afternoon, my stomach tensed and hardened with early contractions. A week later, Monet would be born, and would be given Reed's name as a middle name. He, too, would become a gifted artist.

Once again, I find myself in a place where I have been unsure about how well I would be able to serve and teach.

Once again, I'm being served. I'm being taught.

Two weeks ago, we welcomed a young man into our home from Swaziland for a six-month stay as part of a international voluntary exchange program. Our guest, who I will call Rejoice because that's what his name means, has been such a blessing to me and has already begun to teach me so much about who I am, what I believe, and how my life affects the world and those around me. His politeness, eagerness to learn and amazing dedication to Christ have been sources of much introspection for me.

Over the next six months, I'll be writing about Rejoice, about welcoming him into our family, and about the amazing lessons I'm learning along the way.

Please help me to welcome Rejoice into the Today's Lessons family!

::: scenes from the garden :::

Here are a few moments I wish I could savor forever. After returning from the trail and a trip to the thrift store, The Baby ushered Papa out to the garden to peruse her thrifted William Wegman book. Of course Sweetheart, Bard and Joy the Dog had to get in on the act. What a gorgeous day!

Ten things I love about...stuff.

Here's what I love right now...

That Bard and her debate partner were the first place debate team in their very last debate tournament. Things started out pretty rocky this year, and I've been praying for a good outcome. While this may not be the entire outcome, I think it's part of it.

That the chives are up. They're so green and tall and encouraging! Chives are such a dependable harbinger of Spring.

That the pig is tilling my garden, even if I'm having a hard time getting her to till that one little section of sod and rocks. I hope to have a well-tilled plot of land to enjoy when she's all done, a place where I can plunk in some more leafy green things.

That Houdin was hired as a counselor, cook and pastor at a local camp this summer. I think he'll really enjoy it, and I'm sure the kids will love him.

That things are winding down for the year. Tournaments are over. Pretty soon, classes will be over, choir will be over, and it will be time to do some serious reading, to myself and aloud. Right now, I'm previewing The Benedict Society to read aloud to Monet, Sweetheart and The Baby (who needs a new nickname now that she's five and can answer the phone all by herself).

That relationships are healing. I pray that I can keep giving them over to God and that I can be obedient and humble, no matter what He asks me to do.

That Bard made her decision about college. She received a full academic scholarship for one of her top five choices, but she wasn't sure if it was the right place for her. She decided on Thursday that it was and will begin registering for classes this week. She was even offered a job in the writing lab; a very good friend of ours is the director of the lab and was happy to offer the position to Bard.

That we have the use of a second car. We were limping along with no car, then one car, and now we have two working cars. It makes a world of difference.

That there are visitors to the bird feeders on my porch every day.

That Houdin is able to take a second look at relationships and what they mean after a breakup with his girlfriend. I'm thankful that he's able to focus on his other interests again and just be a teenage boy.

Okay, eleven things: That I have a great walking partner who encourages me to get out there and get some exercise. I'd be a sloth without her.

I'm thankful for the changes that are taking place around me, both big and small. Thank you, God, for your incredible goodness. Please help me to remember to thank You daily!

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff.

That's the sound of me trying to catch my breath. It's the sound of me coming up for air. It's the sound I make when climbing the stairs, too, because I have woefully set aside my running in favor of other important things, like working my butt off so I can pay my bills and feed my family. Unfortunately, my butt doesn't disappear as quickly with this kind of work as it does with running. That, I fear, will have to wait. While my running partner chugs along (have you registered for the 5K yet, Kim?), I'm left in the dust. In lieu of running, I dream about it. Literally. I've composed an essay in my head about my running dreams, but I haven't stopped my life long enough to write it.

The past month has been eventful. Every moment has been occupied. I've been rising with the sun, but it's been beating me to bed each night. If you've ever seen a candle burned at both ends, you'll know what I look like.

Each morning brings the urgency of getting to the garden. With our wet, cold early spring, not much happened after the initial tilling. Now the herb garden is planted and mulched, the veggie garden is filled with onions, swiss chard seeds (yet to come up), peppers, tomatoes, eggplants, more onions, marigolds, basil and cilantro. The asparagus on which I had given up poked its many heads from the cool earth, only to be snipped off by a gang of marauding goats. Still, it persists and I hope for a bountiful harvest next year.

This seems to fit in with the theme of the month--hope deferred. Seeds that don't want to germinate. Newly placed seedlings that fall to the fate of a hungry goat kid. Threatening letters from government agencies holding my precious world in its fists lest I cough up several months' pay for taxes I owe. A new birthday camera just in time for my computer to crash. The cultivator quits when gardening season begins. Life=challenge. Most days, I'm tired and grumpy and my family takes the brunt. A few moments, like waking up from this afternoon's nap to the sound of birds and little girls singing, looking out my window over the finally green hillsides, turning silvery in the breezes of this spring day, almost make me want to grab my camera and my journal, but I barely have the desire. This home and hillside, this desire of my heart, this fruit of my labor, is only tenuously mine. Any act of God, unavoidable tragedy or certified letter might pull it out from under my bare gardening feet, leaving me on my rump, disillusioned and desolate.

These things have been occupying my mind, and more days than not, I find myself deep in depression. Work takes me from home, home greets me with more work, and never am I completely caught up. Even today, a day off from work outside the home, gives me an opportunity to pursue those things that have been niggling at me every day while I'm away, but my energy is zapped, and curled up in bed is where I'd like to be.

That's hardly anything inspiring to write about, though I do think about jotting down thoughts now and again. Life isn't all that poetic right now.

I need air. I need to resurface and take a deep breath. Something fresh and clean to purify my body and renew my energy.

A bit of hope would help, too.