Just After Hitting "Send" to God

"Nalia, look!"

I called her over and we both stared into the rumpled earth.

"I planted these last year and they hid under the snow all winter."

"What are they?" she asked in ten year old curiosity, as my seven year old Daniel peeked over her shoulder too.

Photo Credit: Flickr User: See-Ming Lee, Creative Commons, cc license

"They're parsnips; kind of like a white carrot," I laughed. Plunging my fingers deeper into cold spring soil, I traced dirt away from the white round vegetables in the ground.

Feathery green plumes marked each veggie treasure. I tugged and gently loosened them one plant at a time, before ripping them out of the ground. Black dirt crumbled and tumbled from the round tubulars and I laughed to see food and life burst from underground.

Because the truth was I had forgotten about them. Twelve months ago I had eagerly torn open the paper packet of seeds and stared in dismay at its contents.

"They're so tiny!"

Round brown flakes swirled and mounded inside the seed packet. Pouring a handful into my palm then, I had been afraid the seeds would blow away in a May breeze or be snatched up by cardinals and sparrows. Poking tiny finger holds into cool soil up to my knuckles, I slid one or two lightweight seeds inside, hoping at least several would grow.

Like a Bermuda Triangle in my garden, that corner of raised beds stayed stubbornly bare that spring, while Queen Ann sugar snap peas, Early Contender bush beans, and the butterfly-seedling life force of morning glory flowers had sashayed out of the ground.

In early summer, tall fern-like plants had stood up and crowded that corner of the garden, bowing heads conspiratorially, and I had hoped parsnips were fattening underground. Summer had swelled, crescendoed, and abated. Autumn's trees had dropped reds and yellows that crumpled into browns and tangled in the parsnip greens.

"Parsnips are better after several frosts," I told Mark as we peered out the living room windows in November and December. Snows fell.

This week, the soil warmed and ready, my red tulips bobbing in the breeze, I walked barefoot to my garden and tugged curiously on a parsnip's green top. Wiggling, prying, I pulled up a plump white parsnip.

"Nalia, come see!"

A small mountain of white parsnips mound up on my patio table now, the rain washing them nicely for me. And the parsnips suddenly remind me of my prayers.

Like tiny tremulous seeds I shake out and hold in small hands, they feel so paltry to the task. I plant them and wait, and time seems to slow some days. There are days when I wonder what will grow to fill that space. And as I wait, wonder, and trust the Grower's instructions, seasons pass. 

Life unfolds beneath the surface. In the dark, treasures swell and mature. In the time I've forgotten them, God hasn't. They are sweetening, ripening, growing better by the day. It's in the frost that kills and in winter's long nights that the parsnips grow the sweetest.

After winter's thaw, petite purple crocuses and grape-like hyacinth clusters mark the passing time. Greenery emerges new life from the parsnips corner and I'm suddenly reminded of prayers and plantings from a year ago.

Crouching to my knees, I dig and pull, finding the treasures God has been growing all along.

What's in the Way of Your Beauty?

It wasn't so much that I saw beauty then, but I was clearing the way for it.

That's the way, isn't it? I sat cross-legged in the chilly grass and dug my hands into the matted brown weeds. Several grass heads slid easily into my hands, but the roots remained firmly in place.

The flower bed had been stunning this spring. Crimson, magenta, and lemony tulips bobbed in the breeze, and a few clumsy dopple-headed violet aliums stood high in the back. Throughout the summer, the spring bulbs browned and withered, but white shasta daisies and purple coral bells frilled in their place. Since September, though, -- late-August really-- my husband had noticed that it was mostly the weeds that stood tall now.

"Um, Jen, we've been mowing around your weed bed lately," he laughed wryly. "Can you fix that?"

I meant to, and even pulled out the largest, most prominent weeds, but I didn't have time to tackle the dirt itself. It sat, and the bed grew tangled. September and October were busy until this last week. Other projects grabbed my energy and focus, and the flower bed fell to my October To-Do list.

"Right after the retreats," I told myself.

Yesterday was the day. I grabbed my shovel, hoe and trowel, and headed outside. Up close, the matted bed was worse than I remembered. Tiny roots had grown large, snaking deep around healthy plants, dwarfing them, and stealing their nutrients. The weeds were thick and well-established. My hands alone weren't enough to pry them out. Grabbing my pitchfork, I sank my weight into the ground, getting deep into the soil, where the roots clung the hardest.

So often, our inner lives can sink into disarray too, huh? Putting off the heavy tasks of processing, working through, and getting to the deep roots of an issue or sin, we can simply focus on the most pressing tasks at hand. Saying "I'll think about that later," or "I'll tackle that issue when life gets calmer," we instead allow some weeds to gain strong footings, sinking roots deep.

With cold weary hands in the dirt yesterday, the irony was not lost on me either, and I tugged fiercely at spindly brown plants while asking God to tug out the ugly in me too. We both worked hard.

My front flower bed? The soil is now soft, ready. The weeds are gone. Current purple coral bells once again have unhindered room to develop, and space is cleared for new growth. Check back next spring, will you? There is life hiding right under the surface.

It wasn't so much that I saw beauty then, but I was clearing the way for it.


(And counting, always counting gifts with Ann.)

Art credit to Daniel Rozin, Wooden Mirror.

Between the Rains

"We'll have to buy our wood before the rain comes," he mused, carrying in bags and unpacking their tools. Wood saws, buckets, and gangly narrow planks--reverberating at each step-- stacked into the garage or across the hot asphalt driveway. In-laws from the north drove down this week, kindly tackling work projects with us.

Humid air hung heavy and deliciously hot after an April winter. We piled into multiple cars, and snaked the aisles of a home repair store, our list and pencil calculations in hand. We were building shelves, for the garage and for downstairs. In the downstairs family room, years of homeschooling books and textbooks perched in precarious piles, waiting for the three long bookshelves to be completed.

Over coffee and decaf Earl Grey, we worked, sawing, gluing, nailing, and drilling. When the rains came, we inched into dry rooms and continued. Dads, a grandpa, and sons worked. Moms, a grandma, and daughters worked. We younger ones watched carefully as we followed orders, taking mental notes, seeing selfless grace and a hard work ethic. The shelves grew taller. And when the rain came again, we sank into couches for a generational movie night, dusty, sweaty, and proud.

---

Friday and Saturday, I helped at a garage sale fundraiser for our France senior high missions trip. In between the rains, we stacked shoes and clothing, and arrayed toys and lawn chairs. Rain glittered on sparkly red glitter shoes, and melted cardboard boxes. Under a damp white awning, we talked with strangers, neighbors, and church friends. Teens, siblings, and family members served side by side, next to slippery rain tarps and dripping eaves. In between the rains, we dried items, sold items, and then loaded four trucks of items to give away.

---

This morning, I ground espresso coffee beans, and washed up the last dishes before my parents arrived. Rain fell heavy on the deck and yard. Soon two flood pools reflected back the sky in streets and yards.

Knocking and entering, my parents slid off shoes, passed out hugs, and pulled out seeds. "I brought the strawberry plants around to the back," Mom said, bending low for a four year old's conversation. My dad's shovels, rakes, and buckets lay ready on the front steps.

We drank black coffee, catching up on news, snacking on peanut butter-topped celery and oreos. Sunshine crossed the yard, splashing on to the deck and railings. We drained our coffee, grabbed hoes, and set out across raindrop-tipped dandelions. My mom planted strawberries, transplanted white shasta daisies, and weeded. My dad and I gathered shredded bark, rolled back faulty weed liners, and reinforced weed barriers in the landscape beds.

Hours passed quickly, and black dirt clung to our faces, knees, and hands. At one-thirty, under chilled grey storm-clouds that darkened the sky, we raced raindrops to finish. In seconds, we lost and, grabbing tools, ran laughing to the door. Later, we peered through wet windows to see beautiful garden beds and new life emerging.

---

Emerging now after our last rainfall, I snap photos and crow excitedly over each new life. Tulips shine rain drop jewels next to swelling alium buds, pregnant with life. Radish buds crowd in lines, elbowing each other. Pea pods emerge tiny and curled, barely noticeable in the cracked earth. Mint plants weather fierce rains, slipping up to the light. And the ones that get me most? Vivid green raspberry leaves burst from dead twigs chomped to the ground by hungry deer and gophers last fall. The green life amazes and thrills me, surging unexpected from dormant sticks and hidden underground roots.

---

Rains so often seem to halt activity, yet it is after the rains that I see the most vivid life.

Between the rains, life grows. From the rain, life grows.


Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience.

"The Sky is Low..."

"The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

A traveling flake of snow

Across a barn or through a rut

Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day

How some one treated him;

Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

Without her diadem.” (Emily Dickinson)

Laying low this weekend after a great youth retreat, I’m on a third cup of coffee, and my kids and I crowd close around the computer screen to watch a science dvd. We munch carrots, pop salted green edamame beans, and chew whole wheat cheese quesadillas (“Mom, whole wheat?! Really?”) while dog variants march across the screen. (“Okay, I’ll try not to buy whole wheat tortillas again.”) 

Later, my teens descend to their rooms for other school, and I ponder flower beds and perennial gardens. The plastic bucket of Shasta daisy roots in my garage languish from their planting delay, and I feverishly plot companion flowers and layouts. 

My borrowed garden books speak of the power of good companions who can bolster up sagging plants, hide unseemly roots, and add vivid color to those around them. The reference books speak of the need for lush fertile soil, enriched by compost and mulch -- treasured life-giving nutrients that spring up from the surrender of decay and death. Hearty life and color spring from old growth, from life surrendered, from the drab of former death. 

Grabbing my spade, the bucket of dead-looking Shasta daisy roots, some magenta corabells, and bags of daffodil, tulip, and crocus bulbs, I head out under a low grey sky. Pondering companion plants that add strength and beauty to each other, and the need for continually-enriched soil that gives life and heartiness, I plunge hands into cold dirt. 

Linking with Ann, I say, merci seigneur.

Of Gardens and Churches

Falling silently and nearly invisible, the rain soaks deep into the grass. Slow, steady, unchanging. 

The effect at first is almost negligible. What good could come from this small amount? But subtly quietly, it continues. Water seeps into brittle grass, bounces off grey weathered deck planks, and into freshly dug raspberry beds. The soil blackens slightly, softening. 

For the first time last night in this new group, we circled on couches with other couples, while our children ranged free outside and nearby. Ice cream puddled in styrofoam bowls over brownie and peanuts, and conversations were tentative. We’re joining a new small group, and feeling hesitant, careful. Guarding our calendar and family time is the main focus, not wanting to be too busy, but there’s more, I know. Coming out of a painful church split these last few years, I am still in a quiet phase, carefully choosing my words, trying to be spirit-led in my words and attitudes, and silently recovering emotionally. 

My dad and I jumped on shovel edges this week, rocked garden pitchforks, and swung fearsome yellow mallets, erecting four raised garden beds and a raspberry trough. Side by side for three days, we pulled sod, shook dirt, and blackened our hands and feet. At one point, in my folly, I shoveled-jumped in sandals, slipping and slicing my foot open on the sharp shovel edge. Pain and blood flowed to the surface, and I hobbled inside. Later, cleaned up, bandaged, and wearing safer shoes, I returned to the hard ground and work. Gripping the handle, I jumped high again, cutting into the clay ground, creating room for new life. 

This morning, rain falls silently and unceasingly, seeping into the hard ground. The changes are minimal, but noticeable over time. The ground is softening.

Linking with Imperfect Prose, and Scribing the Journey.