The Tug-of War (that I won)

I changed my mind.

As is pretty typical for me, I awoke in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep. For whatever reason, I started thinking about the landscaping project that I have been working on. All of the sudden, I decided that I didn’t want a shrub rose in the front anymore. In considering how overgrown and obnoxious they look in the backyard, I didn’t want a repeat performance in the front yard, so I started considering my options.

And so, I had  a midnight revelation (only this was a good one; 70% of the time these revelations seem like a good idea in the middle of the night only to be deemed stupid once I shake off the delirium of sleep).  I rolled over and went back to sleep, knowing I had a plan to execute in the morning.

After I had put on my gardening gloves and acquired the spade, I grabbed the scrub rose branches and pinned them back, much like you would pin unruly bangs. There, buried under the branches was a pathetic-looking weigela. Several of the branches were bare, and any existing leaves were pretty spare.  Clearly, the overgrown shrub rose had literally been sucking the life out of the weigela.

As I stuck my spade into the soil at the base of the plant, I began giving the weigela a pep talk, telling it that I had a much better home in mind for it and would it please cooperate by popping right out of the soil.

Unfortunately, the weigela was even more stubborn than my daughter. After loosening the soil around the plant, I put all my weight onto the shank of the spade, which clearly was taxing the shank as wood and metal began to separate. That weigela had literally put its feet, or in this case, root down, protesting any possible relocation.

At one point, the spade, weigela and I were involved in a complicated aerobic dance in which I was rocking up and down on the shank of the spade – similar to little kids who ride the rocking park toys with the metal coil. While I made some headway, progress was inhibited by shrub rose thorns that mysteriously grabbed my shirt and penetrated my back as well as an early morning infestation of hungry mosquitoes.

It was a showdown between the weigela and me. Only one of us would win.

Finally, after grunting, wrestling, rocking, and generally tussling with the weigela, I heard a pop and the plant tumbled over in defeat. I believe I even said aloud, “I WON!” But as I carried the plan to the new location, I admit that I felt kind of sorry for it. I know how I hate to lose, so I could understand if the plant wanted to pout and ignore me.

The weigela is now in its new location. It’s been pruned a bit more,  and I have to say that even after a couple of hours, the plant actually looks happy, if that’s possible.  From now on, it will get just the right amount of sun, and in time, it will be a showcase piece in the new landscaping.

How often do I act like the weigela? Just as the weigela was hidden by the shrub rose, I can easily get stuck in a rut, seeing only one perspective, or doing something I don’t enjoy simply because I don’t see or know anything better or feel bad for saying no. Usually, through reflection and prayer, I can find the solution. The next, most difficult part for me is actually taking a step to make a change.  Sometimes, someone else has to intervene and show me a different perspective or path.

Like the weigela, quite often, people, in general, don’t like the intrusion. But why?  What are we afraid of? The weigela’s stubbornness wasn’t due to fear; its roots were just firmly established over time. I think the same thing is true for us. We like our routines, don’t like to be challenged, and/or are too lazy or afraid to make a change. While we may not like the way things are going, it’s safe, “normal,” expected. Besides, how we live our lives and how we think is no one else’s business but our own, right? And yet, if someone sticks his/her neck out to intervene, that should be a huge flag. Clearly, there is something amiss if someone from the outside chooses to get involved. And yet, like the weigela, we stubbornly dig in our heels, resisting any suggestions or efforts to change or see things in a different way.

Often, this is a destructive decision. In the weigela’s case, it would have led to certain death as the shrub rose was leaching all the sunlight and nutrients away from it. The intervention and transplant means that the plant will now have the opportunity to reach its full potential. Wouldn’t we, as humans, want the same results?

“Pride” is one of those words that can have both positive and negative connotations – kind of like the word, “ambition.” It’s important to have pride in what you do, but when selfishness becomes the prime motivator, there is a problem, which can unravel an entire life in a short period of time. “Pride only breeds quarrels, but wisdom is found in those who take advice.” Proverbs 13:10.

This morning, as a returned from my run, I gave the weigela a good “once-over.”  I was surprised and delighted to see that there are buds on the leaves that are on the cusp of opening. Clearly, this was a good move. And even though I technically won the battle between the weigela and me, I think it’s safe to say that we both won.

Remember Me?

As part of my devotions lately, I have been reading a chapter per day from the book, Crazy Love by Francis Chan. It seems Chan's book is the Purpose-Driven Life of this decade, so I thought I better check it out. A few days ago, I read Chan's comments on page 46: " In about fifty years (give or take a couple of decades), no one will remember you. Everyone you know will be dead. Certainly no one will care about what job you had, what car you drove, what school you attended, or what clothes you wore." I have spent the last couple of days mulling that over.

 

At first glance, this is a horribly-depressing statement, only because our first reactions, as humans, to anything in life are always selfish. We get a little panicky because we start thinking about the fact that it will seem as though we never existed. Then, after those initial thoughts dissipate, it's a charge to make sure that every second we are here counts - not in a hedonistic way but satisfying our time and place purpose.

 

Then, I started thinking about all the physical items that are left behind to remind us that A PERSON EXISTED. There are memories, but those aren't tangible, and they are valid only as long as the rememberer exists.  Even then, the memories are somewhat flawed; if you are 100% honest, you will agree that a memory gets "juicier" and more detailed the more often it is told. What, then, is a true memory? There are photographs, but even those aren't accurate because they are only snapshots of a particular moment in time; plus, they give no additional information regarding the person's thoughts, hopes, moods, etc. Seriously, think about how many times you have smiled at the camera when you felt more like punching someone or bawling your eyes out. A person's existence can be legitimized through legal documents, but they certainly do not give a true indication of what s/he was like. Likewise, his/her "stuff" may give an indication of what s/he valued in life, but all that "stuff" eventually wears out, becomes obsolete, and let's face it, is worth nothing.

 

In my opinion, journals and diaries are the most valuable, tangible objects to keep the memory of a person who is no longer here alive.

 

If that's the case, then our generation should be well-documented.  Facebook, Twitter, and MySpace (supposedly making a comeback) have given those who want to participate the opportunity to document the minutia of their lives. Blogging has become a voyeuristic activity for both writers and readers. The Internet is glutted with the words and sentences of people who want to be both heard and remembered. It seems they are getting their wish; the Library of Congress is now archiving text messages for posterity. At first glance, that seems like a silly concept (and it is), but in the long run, it will be an interesting anthropological study of what this generation was like - what we talked about, what we were concerned about, what was important to us.

 

Call me a pessimist, but the electronic element in all of this just feels a little Brave New World to me - cold and sterile; devoid of artistic appeal and pathos. While it restores the personal touch that photographs and memories lack, it still feels lacking.

 

A couple of months ago, I acquired a potpourri of boxes containing some of my grandma's stuff. She died on February 7, so opening up the boxes spurred a walk down memory lane. A good portion of the items in the boxes were sewing items, and as I dug around, sifting through I came across a small tablet. It was recipe card size with perforations at the top - the idea was that you could write a recipe and rip it out from the tablet to either share or put into a recipe box. As I opened it up and started flipping through, I saw it was a daily journal from 1982. Each day for a few months, Grandma had written a few lines about the day. Even though she didn't say anything extraordinary or profound, I heard what was on her mind, and it was written in her handwriting.

 

It was the best treasure in the box.

 

To date, I have something like ten journals stuffed away in my drawer. I jokingly (but not so jokingly) have instructed my BFF that if I die before her, she has to grab all of them and burn them. In those hand-written journals are my thoughts, frustrations, joys, judgments, and praises. While the journals show what was on my heart at any given moment, they have not always been so flattering - concerning me and everyone else. They are, however, an accurate and sometimes, heart-wrenching, chronology of my personal and spiritual journey.

 

Even as I type this, I wonder if fifty years from now pens and paper will still be accessible? Will anyone know how to write in cursive? Will anyone actually do it? Will anyone be able to read it?  Even now, my students complain that they can't read the comments I put on their papers because they are hand-written and not printed. It's just weird to think about since paper and penmanship have been such a big part of our lives for something like 500 years.

 

And to me, something handwritten, especially with regard to a journal or diary, is far more valuable. It is the rich combination of a person's intimate thoughts and handwriting - a true window to his/her heart. Of all the historical artifacts (and I like history), the letters are the most valuable to me at a museum. It adds a personal perspective to a historical event, much like Anne Frank does in her diary. Likewise, the handwritten items are a form of art. Both the United States Constitution and Declaration of Independence are lovely to look at simply because of the ornate handwriting.

 

Even so, I think I am in the minority in believing that. Am I anti-technology? Not at all, but I will readily admit that I am cautiously pessimistic about throwing out the old to replace the new. Every time that happens, something is lost - sometimes, this is good; oftentimes, it is not.

 

As to Francis Chan's comments, quite honestly, I have no qualms about being forgotten fifty years from now. I will do what I can do, and I will try to fulfill my destiny in the best way I can. I am completely at peace with that idea. As to my journals, I am still on the fence with regard to that issue. Personally, I think here is something purely magical about pen, ink, and handwriting; however, I am not so convinced that future generations will agree. If they read them, however, they will have a definite portrait of who I was, and they will learn that my thoughts, dreams, and struggles weren't all that much different than theirs.

Peace-Full-Nes(t)

On Friday afternoon when I came home from work, I interrupted a barn swallow who was in the process of creating a nest on the motion light above the garage door. The nest was in the beginning stages of construction as a there were only a few sprigs of grass or hay, and the bird in question flew away with a strand still in its beak.

When I went into the house, I reported the new development to Mike, who said, "Again? I just took one down from that spot. I suppose I better go take it down again."

"Ah, leave it," I said in return. "After she lays the eggs, and they hatch, it won't be long before they leave the nest, and then, you can take it down. Let's just give her a break."

By the next morning, the nest (picture) was complete, and I was amazed and how quickly the nest had been erected. Somehow, the bird had even acquired the necessary mud mixture to bind the concoction. Now, for the fun part - waiting for the chicks to hatch.

While I realize that instinct is driving the bird's impulse, I nevertheless was/am impressed by the bird's persistence. Mike had taken the nest down once. However, the bird had other ideas. It had determined that this was the best spot for the nest, so it started all over again.

I know a thing or two about stubbornness. I am confident enough in who I am to readily admit that if you look up my name in the dictionary, you will probably see "stubborn" as part of the definition. Likewise, this quality apparently attached itself to my DNA because both of our children have tenacity flowing through them as well. If I want something badly enough, if I am told "no" (when I know the answer is or could be yes), or if I think I am right (gol darn it), I will generally do not back down.

However, can I consider myself as persistent and determined as the bird? I just don't know. Just like the bird, I have started on projects, only to have them come to a definite dead end.  Just like the bird, I have had my "wings clipped," so to speak, by unkind actions and words or goals and dreams that have not been realized.

 James 1:12 says, "Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him."

Just like the bird, I have been equipped with an "instinct," or voice, that spurs me to action and encourages me to continue even when the situation does not look promising.  As God's creation, He has planted distinct hopes, dreams, and goals deep within me (specifically) that continue to spur me to action. They are "itches" from the Holy Spirit that need "scratching," so I continue to pursue them even though doing so doesn't make a lot of sense.

Soon, the heads of little hatchlings will be bobbing up and down in the nest; in one sense, the bird will receive several crowns of life for remaining steadfast in building the nest in spite of the trials it faced. I am confident that I, too, will be rewarded for remaining steadfast. I used to get worked up because God's timeline and mine did not match up, and I will admit that there are times when I get frustrated and impatient.  Even so, I am reminded that He has promised the desires of my heart when I take delight in Him in all circumstances (Psalm 37:4), and He ALWAYS keeps His promises.

Psalm 37:5 "Commit your way to The Lord; trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass."

Tiiiiimmmmmbbbbbeeeeer

            The other day, Mike decided that we had to mow the lawn (again) before the rain started. He offered to push while I rode the lawnmower, but I told him I needed the exercise, so I ended up doing the trimming. After a tussle with a spark plug and an uncooperative gas line, I finally hit my stride and was making progress.

            As I was completing yet another drunken waltz with the lawnmower around an evergreen tree, I noticed that the ash tree on the corner was completely devoid of leaves, dead and emaciated. Then, toward the east end of the property, there was another one. I knew that we had a couple of dead ones, but now that the leaves had started to bud, and the yard had greened up, the necessity of cutting them down was definitely underscored. 

            Now, every time I back out of the driveway, my eyes immediately go to the dead trees, which are an eyesore on an otherwise beautiful boulevard. As I pulled out again today, I started thinking about how the dead tree reminds me of my life.

            At face value, a dead tree isn't really that big of a deal, but a dead tree can become a problem if it is impeding the growth of other shrubbery and trees around it.  Sure, it's not sucking up moisture anymore, but its mere presence may take up space that a budding tree or shrub might need in order to reach its potential.

            Likewise, a dead tree can become a hazard to people. A strong breeze or wind could be enough to knock the tree over so that it falls and destroys property or harms someone. In short, unless the tree is in the middle of a forest, it is generally a good idea to cut down a dead tree.

            The dead tree reminds me of bad habits, negativity, or bitterness in my life. Just like the tree, the "ick" in my life is generally harmless as well as unnoticeable to everyone except me. Just as I had ignored the dead trees on our yard over the winter (because all the trees looked alike), most people ignore the "ick" because quite frankly, they are more consumed with the minutiae of their own worlds to worry about someone else.

            Even so, those "dead trees" in my life inhibit positive growth, enthusiasm, and helpful spiritual habits. Getting rid of those "dead trees" allows me to plant new thoughts, fertilize them with prayer, and grow them into what God has intended them to be.

            Just as an untended, dead tree progressively becomes more of a hazard, those bad habits, negative attitudes, and bitter beliefs eventually start to poison my relationships with other people, destroying them and even preventing someone else's growth.

            When a dead tree is felled, ecologists will tell you that it still serves a purpose. The suggestion is to leave it, let it rot, and let it become a renewable resource for plant life and animals alike. The same is true of the dead trees in our lives.  Even when felled, they serve a purpose for us.  While they no longer negatively impede our growth, they serve as a reminder of where we have been and what we have learned. They are  resources for future decision-making and character development.

            A dead tree requires more effort to extract than pulling a weed.  It involves sweat, time, and physical exertion. The same is true of the dead trees in our lives. When a person decides to tackle a dead tree, it is no easy task. However, just as the landscape changes, growth occurs, and beauty of the yard is restored when the dead trees are removed, the same is true of our lives.  

"Surely its life withers away, and from the soil other plants grow." Job 8:19

The Parable of the Potato Patch

"And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns." Philippians 1:6

As part of my nightly meandering around the yard, I went to check on my vegetable garden. As I knelt down beside the potato patch, I noticed a small patch of green was pushing through the soil.

In order for a seed to become a plant, it needs four things:  heat, moisture, light, and oxygen. Any garden (ha - I made a funny) variety science class can teach you that. However, the science class cannot underscore the wonder and significance of it all.

In order for a seed to transform, it needs heat, moisture, light, and oxygen. Essentially, that seed needs to "rot" and split in order for new life to begin. In order to meet its true potential and purpose, it HAS to undergo a change.

Well, it doesn't take a scientist (ha - man, I'm on a roll) to see the significance of the metaphor. A seed's journey resembles the journey that each of us make as we go through life.  In many cases, we undergo that journey many times within a lifetime.

Often, the "heat" of life is unpleasant. A life change, an unexpected circumstance, a soured relationship provide the heat for the catalyst to change. Then, moisture enters. Often, that moisture in my life is a steady stream of tears, which are a reaction to the heat. Just about the time that it feels overwhelming, a light breaks. It could be an unexpected phone call or card from a friend, it could be an unexpected benefit, or it could be a realization that had been blocked by self-doubt, narrow-thinking, selfishness, or all three. Once the light breaks, it feels as though I can breathe again. Just as the plant receives and needs life-giving oxygen, a new focus and a realignment of my faith causes a metamorphosis in me.

As I pass through the various stages of heat, moisture, light, and oxygen, I, too, push through the soil of disappointment, disillusionment, and selfishness. Each time I complete the cycle, I move closer to becoming the person whom God intended for me to be (and whom He was planning for me to be when I was truly yet a seed).

As I think about my wee potato bud's journey to topside, I am reminded to rejoice in all aspects of life's journey. While the heat and moisture are unpleasant, they are just as necessary as light and oxygen to complete the growth process. While I can't yet say that I rejoice in the midst of the process, I can say that I appreciate the process. Oddly enough, I can also say that I am thankful for the journey because each completed cycle means I have "pushed through" the circumstances to be one step closer to the full bloom of Godly character. 

The Sandwich

Since he had such a great experience during the previous summer, Nick once again decided that he wanted to help with maintenance at Lake Beauty Bible Camp. Now that his college finals were complete, it was time to pack up and head up to Long Prairie. After purchasing “Roxanne” (the motorcycle) last fall, Nick knew that he wanted to bring her up with him as well as his car to camp. Thus, it was necessary for Mike and me to accompany Nick this morning. Mike was in Nick’s car, Nick was on Roxanne, and I was bringing up the rear in our car.

At breakfast, it was decided that Mike would be the “pace car” in Nick’s Lumina, Nick would be sandwiched in the middle while I would bring up the rear. As you will recall, the weather was somewhat inclement this morning, so we agreed that it might be safer for Nick to be in the middle in case he had any difficulty and to make sure (to the extent that we could) that we could insulate him from other drivers due to poor visibility.

An hour and a half is enough time to get some serious thinking in, and so, I was alternately thinking and praying this morning as I was bringing up the rear in the caravan. As I watched the two vehicles in front of me, a light bulb flashed in my head.

Our little morning caravan this morning basically mimicked the last 19 years of Nick’s life. Mike and I have been the book ends in Nick’s life. Even though Nick hasn’t always been so receptive, Mike has been the “pace car” in teaching Nick the tricks of the trade in being a man. That’s not to say that there haven’t been others who have been just as influential, but Dad has been the go-to guy who has tried to set a pace for Nick.

I, on the other hand, have always and for eternity (it feels like, at least) been bringing up the rear – checking to make sure all the details are taken care of and making sure nothing (or no one) got left behind. I know for a fact that Nick has not always enjoyed my role in that regard, but I also know that he has (begrudgingly, as times) appreciated it.

Obviously, I am simplifying the situation, but as Mom and Dad, we have always “sandwiched” Nick, and it seems as though that was God’s intention when He brought Mike and me together. We are about as different as night and day, but we agree on the “big stuff,” and together, we have been alternately a shield, a protective boundary, a fence, a picket line, and a bridle for Nick throughout life.

Does that then make us model parents? No way. Parenting has been (and continues to be) the hardest job I have ever done and the only thing at life that has made me feel like a failure. It has brought me to my knees and made me feel completely inadequate. It has made me pace the floor, cry, and feel bone-aching sorrow from the depths of my core.

As I continued to trail behind Nick and Mike, the song, “Live Like That,” by Sidewalk Prophets started, which is a song that I have emotionally linked to graduation last year. It seemed to be God’s gentle reminder that in spite of my (our) inadequacies and failures as parents along the way, God wanted Mike to be Nick’s (and Erika’s) dad, and me to be Nick’s (and Erika’s) mom. The “sandwich” has been a part of God’s plan for their lives. If by God’s grace and help, Mike and I can raise two kids to be healthy, God-fearing people with servant hearts; then, every aggravation has been worth it.