Love For A Lifetime

Last evening we savored the joy of witnessing wedding vows for two precious friends. Encircled by beautiful young women in mint green dresses and handsome young men in white shirts and black vests, they held hands and promised to love each other for the rest of their lives. 

It has been forty years since Ron and I made the same promise to each other. Long before we had any idea what our life together would become. And by God's grace, our vows have stood the test of time, through difficult seasons and idyllic ones alike. As I watch my hair slowly turn from brown to gray, I pray fervently for many more years together. I think I am getting the hang of being married now, and it doesn't seem fair somehow that more years surely lie behind us than ahead.

Louie, Ron's best friend from high school days (and best man at our wedding), gave us a plaque for a wedding gift. He had it inscribed with these words from Robert Browning:

     Grow old along with me!
     The best is yet to be,
     the last of life, for which the first is made.

I remember being both surprised and pleased with this gift which still graces our wall, for I did not know him well. He is a brilliant, taciturn man who has remained single his whole life, still working on his family's farm. Ron drives out to visit him there when he returns to his hometown from time to time. Louie's sister coaxed him on a trip to visit us once in San Diego, many years ago. I enjoyed our conversations immensely and came to respect his quiet intellectuality and sense of humor.

Recently, while enjoying a collection of Ruth Bell Graham's poetry, I found a piece to pass on to the newly wed couple. Born in China to missionary parents, Ruth's dream was to become a missionary herself, taking the gospel of Jesus to one of the farthest reaches in the world, Tibet. After meeting and courting the young Billy Graham at Wheaton College, she wrestled in prayer and finally decided that instead of serving as a single missionary, her life would be bound up with Billy's passion for evangelism.

When they began being separated for long periods of time due to his travel, Ruth convinced Billy to move them to Montreat, North Carolina, to be near her parents. There she built the family homestead, raised five children and had a flourishing ministry in the mountains of western North Carolina even as she supported her husband's world-wide ministry.

Ruth went home to her Lord at the age of eighty-seven. I hope you, too, will delight in this, one of her early love poems.


     Train our love
     that it may grow
     slowly... deeply... steadily;
     till our hearts will overflow
     unrestrained and readily.

     Discipline it too,
     dear God;
     strength of steel
     throughout the whole.
     Teach us patience, 
     thoughtfulness, 
     tenderness, and 
     self-control.

     Deepen it
     throughout the years, 
     age and mellow it
     until, time that finds us
     old without,
     within,
     will find us 
     lovers still.

He Gave Us Himself

                            And when we give each other Christmas gifts in His name, 
                            let us remember that He has given us 
                            the sun and the moon and the stars, 
                            and the earth with its forests and mountains and oceans - and 
                            all that lives and move upon them. 

                            He has given us all green things and 
                            everything that blossoms and bears fruit and 
                            all that we quarrel about and 
                            all that we have misused - and 
                            to save us from our foolishness, 
                            from all our sins, 
                            He came down to earth and gave us Himself.

                            ~ Sigrid Undset

First Coming

                                        He did not wait till the world was ready,

                                        till men and nations were at peace.

                                        He came when the Heavens were unsteady

                                        and prisoners cried out for release.

                                        He did not wait for the perfect time.

                                        He came when the need was deep and great.

                                        He dined with sinners in all their grime,

                                        turned water into wine. He did not wait

                                        till hearts were pure. In joy he came

                                        to a tarnished world of sin and doubt. 

                                        To a world like ours, of anguished shame

                                        he came, and his Light would not go out.

                                        He came to a world which did not mesh,

                                        to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.

                                        In the mystery of the Word made Flesh

                                        the Maker of the stars was born.

                                        We cannot wait till the world is sane

                                        to raise our songs with joyful voice,

                                        for to share our grief, to touch our pain,

                                        He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!

              

                                        ~ Madeleine L'Engle

Mary's Song

                                      Blue home spun in the bend of my breast

                                      keep warm this small, hot, naked star 
                                      fallen into my arms. (Rest...

                                      you who have had so far to come.)

                                      Now nearness satisfies 

                                      the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies
                                      whose vigor hurled a universe. He sleeps
                                      whose eyelids have not closed before.

                                      His breath (so slight it seems 

                                      no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps

                                      to sprout a world. Charmed by doves' voices,

                                      the whisper of straw, he dreams,

                                      hearing no music from his other spheres.

                                      Breath, mouth, ears, eyes

                                      he is curtailed who overflowed all skies, 

                                      all years. Older than eternity, now he 

                                      is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed 

                                      to my poor planet, caught 

                                      that I might be free, blind in my womb 

                                      to know my darkness ended,

                                      brought to this birth for me to be new-born,

                                      and for him to see me mended 

                                      I must see him torn.

                                      ~ Luci Shaw

The Adventure of Travel

This morning I wake up, excited that our long anticipated trip will soon begin. I sit at the computer to check my morning email. I have received a message from The Groom. He writes: Just heard that our international pilots will go on strike, which might affect your flight...

But of course. If there is one thing I've learned about travel, it is this: plenty can go wrong.

There was our family trip to Alaska. We drove all the way to Whitehorse, Yukon, way up in northern Canada. There and back again. Along the way, we caught the ferry in Prince Rupert, Canada, to enjoy the incredibly gorgeous scenery of the Inside Passage. We had been warned - prior to boarding - that the ferry workers were threatening to strike. But we had already driven over 2000 miles to get to that ferry. We took a vote and decided it was a risk worth taking.

We loved the ferry. It was nearly empty due to fears of a strike. Our kids had the run of the ship. We had our own cabin with bunks and a tiny lavatory. Along the way we disembarked to enjoy a few days in Ketchikan, Alaska. 

Now Ketchikan could not be called a large town, at least by California standards. We pretty much drove from one end of it to the other. We explored the gold rush era town. We photographed the beautiful totems for which the town is famous. We drove to the dump in an attempt to see wild bears.

And then we waited to see if the ferry would be returning to carry us to our next destination. 

Now the only way in or out of Ketchikan is by seaplane or ferry. I try to picture us flying out in one of those small float planes while our blue Aerostar gets strapped to the deck of a barge. I go to the front desk of our hotel.


"If the ferry doesn't come, will you have room for us to stay here until it does?" I ask.

"Can't promise anything," she says.

We kept strolling to the ferry dock to check on the status. And we were immensely relieved when we finally found this notice in the window.

Yes, things happen.  National Asset lives in the moment. And somehow that seems to work out for him. But me, well I am a planner. And planners by definition anticipate the many things that could happen and try to head them off in order to thwart disaster.

I have honed this skill through experience. There was the time on a different long car trip when were having trouble finding a campground as night was falling. This was in the era of AAA guidebooks and paper maps. I managed to direct us to a small campground just in time to get the very last campsite. The one on the tiny slip of grass just inside the gate that really didn't look like a campsite at all. 

But we were desperate. As the Asset worked on setting up the tent I went to forage for food at the little camp store. The woman inside saw me coming and literally turned the sign on the door to closed and pulled the shade so she wouldn't have to wait on me. She completely ignored my face peering through the window mouthing please help us we are so hungry.

So there we are, four of us huddled in the tent, trying to make the best of things, when our young daughter starts weeping.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" I ask. 

Is it the fact that every time a vehicle enters the driveway their headlights aim straight at our tent making us fear we will be run over in our sleep?

Is it hunger because dinner consists of sharing the skimpy remains of lunch that are bobbing around in melted ice in the bottom of our ice chest?

"What is it?" I ask again.

"There's no wildlife here!" she sobs.

Yes, we have learned a lot about travel over the years. And we've learned to make our different approaches to traveling work pretty well. The Asset contributes most of the spontaneity and I provide most of the common sense. We make a good team.

Since the Asset has traveled extensively in Europe, he is planning our itinerary.

I, on the other hand, am working through the list of things-that-could-go-wrong-and-how-will-I-fix-them. 

There is that whole Putin-invading-Ukraine thing. And the shooting down of a plane in their airspace. I emailed The Groom expressing my concerns about flying in Europe, to which I received an immediate, and I mean immediate, reply. He assured me that (a) Ukraine is a loong ways from Germany, and (b) that plane had no business flying in Ukraine airspace at all. Period.

So I'm good with this one.

Then there is the whole ebola thing. It really didn't worry me until people began flying on planes after being exposed. So, plucky adventurer that I am, I will just be sure not to touch anyone's bodily fluids. Can't be that tricky, can it?

And when I make the mistake of watching the news at the end of the day when I am tired, well, is it just me or does the world look like it is in total chaos or what? But, as the Asset keeps saying, we're not going to Iraq.

So I am actually feeling okay about all this. After all, you can't expect to have no risk whatsoever when you are out having an adventure. And I love adventures.

Then one evening National Asset asks if I received the email he forwarded entitled Defensive Security Briefing. 

"Yup," I say. "I saw it."

"I think you should read it," he says. "Start at Section F."

I print the document and begin scanning through it. It is mostly stuff like try not to look affluent or like a tourist...in other words, blend in. Okay...should I not ask for directions (in English) if I get lost?

And "if another vehicle hits you while you are on a deserted stretch of road, note the license number, but do not stop. If your vehicle is impaired, don't get out unless several other cars stop to assist and/or the police are present." Well duh.

I am to be cautious of sexual overtures from anyone, and not engage in political arguments. No sweat.

I can't photograph anything associated with the military. Or slum areas, ghettos, or underprivileged persons. Oh, and no airports or train yards, either. Check.

In the event that I am taken hostage in a terrorist situation, I must prepare myself mentally for a long period of hostage negotiations and remember, that although negotiations are usually lengthy, virtually all hostages are released unharmed. Oh, and I must attempt to establish personal rapport with my captors, while at the same time maintaining my dignity. 

"How do I build rapport with captors?" I ask the Asset.

"Oh, I have to review this every year in training," he says. "You ask them about their kids."

Right. Ask them about their kids. Got it.

Then it gets spooky.

"Our clothes may be tagged with invisible dyes and/or radioactive materials?" I ask incredulously.

"Yeah," the Asset replies. "Did you read the part about using stamps?"

I scan further down.

"They put invisible inks and radioactive tracers on postage stamps, too?" 

He grins.

You just might want to bear this in mind if you should receive a postcard from me. Especially if it has a photo of a slum or train station.

Just received a quick update from The Groom: your flight will not be cancelled. Therefore you should be fine. Let's hope it stays that way!

Yes, indeed. Let's hope it stays that way.

Anticipation

I look at suitcases spread open on the big guest bed. I look at the piles of blue jeans and shirts and socks and sweaters for layering and sigh. I am out of practice at this.

Since we bought Sanctuary, all of our trips have been between there and San Diego, our car loaded with a computer and sewing machine, a sturdy bag that serves as my portable office, and all the things that we need in both locations for work and living, including two cats and their paraphernalia. I have developed a high-tech system for these trips, involving a pile of miscellaneous items in a corner of our bedroom that increases in size in anticipation of each trip. As I think of things that need to travel with us to one house or the other, it goes on the pile. When travel day comes, these items are transferred to whatever vehicle we will be using and voila! Off we go.

This trip is different. Six months ago I received an email from a good friend inviting us to attend his wedding. In Germany. This will not be a throw-everything-in-the-car-and-close-the doors kind of trip. No, this one requires a different skill set.

So I look at all our mismatched luggage and nearly despair. National Asset looks at me but says nothing. His pile will most likely fit in a carry-on. A small carry-on.

Of course, one of the large bags to be checked is filled with our wedding gift, a handmade quilt stitched with love for the bride and groom. So on our return flight that bag will be available for overflow and whatever will return with us from Europe. But this knowledge provides no help to me now.

This will be my first trip over the pond. Our daughter accompanied her dad on a work trip when she was still in high school. She was delighted to be missing anatomy and English and visiting Europe's fine museums and art galleries. I remember discussing the trip with the school administrator. 

"I'm afraid this will be an unexcused absence since she has used up most of her sick days," she says.

"What does unexcused mean?" I ask. "Will this affect her graduation somehow?"

"No," she replies.

"You do understand that she will be attending art college in the fall, and this is an opportunity for her to visit some of the best museums in the world, right?"

"It is still unexcused," she says.

"Well, what are the consequences of being unexcused?" I ask.

"It will go on her permanent record," she replies.

"Oh, okay. Well I am her mother and I give permission for my daughter to go on this trip even though it will be unexcused."

Our son went to Europe with his dad more recently. They share an interest in family genealogy. Their trip included hours, maybe even days, doing research in places housing archives, and locating the sites where our ancestors lived and worked and worshiped.

Finally, it is my turn. I have made the Asset promise that I won't have to visit with the distant relative who delights in showing off his amazingly large collection of cattle semen. There are so many other things that I've read about and seen pictures of that I would like to visit. I detected something that felt a bit like resistance, but he agreed. As I said, it is my turn now.

I just have to get there.

I remind myself that I survived two trips to Australia with not only a serious time difference to overcome, but a change of season as well. On one of those the Asset left me behind for two additional nights (due to waiting too long to book my return) which involved flying from Sydney to Hawaii to Vancouver, Canada, in that middle seat in the middle aisle directly in front of the galley so the seat doesn't recline at all, with the passenger on my left coughing and the one on my right holding a puke bag and having to exit the plane and go through customs at each and every stop before landing in San Diego twenty-four hours later. 

This was my watershed trip. I do not like flying. I do not feel well when I am flying. I can't sleep while flying. But, I figure if I survived that nightmare trip from Australia, I can do this.

Europe, here I come.

The Blue Belly Incident

"Where is Domino?" I ask National Asset. 

We had debated on whether we should let him outdoors today. There was a commotion in the woods last night. It set the neighborhood dogs howling and brought the thought of coyotes and bears to mind. 

But with our long-tailed, black and white kitty begging, begging, and begging some more at the door, we had given in and let him go get his wiggles out.

"I just saw him playing with a lizard," the Asset replies.  Such critters provide a lot of entertainment - and exercise - for our cats.

A little later I go through the mudroom and find a good sized (albeit tailless) blue-bellied lizard stuck under the door to the guest house. I get down on my knees and try to pull him free, but his head is too big to go in either direction, in or out. He wiggles his legs to let me know that he is still alive down there in this unhappy predicament. I get the key to the door and slowly start opening it, only to realize that the weather stripping on the bottom will most certainly take off his large, triangular head. 

Now, I've handled all kinds of little critters in all kinds of situations. They are usually terrified and unwilling guests covertly brought inside by one of the cats. Of these, lizards are the easiest. I have no problem picking them up in order to give them one more shot out in the wild. I've found that a firm grasp on the back of the neck usually does the trick. At least long enough to get them out the door. 

But honestly, in all my lizard encounters, I've never met this exact situation before.  I grab him with my fingers and gently wiggle him a bit, trying to pull him back out. Doesn't work. I try a little push. No good. I try moving the door once more but it simply drags the little guy along for the ride. I don't know how he got where he did, but I just can't see any way to get him out without decapitating him. And I just can't do it. I cannot get myself to push open the door that will tear the head off of this unlucky creature while he is still alive.

So of course, I call for National Asset. He comes down from his office where he was probably working on an international crisis of some sort and gets down on his knees in the mudroom. He gently pushes and pulls on the little guy. He tries opening the door. He agrees with my assessment of the situation. I tell him I just can't intentionally do something that will rip the head off the little guy. 

Ever my hero, he goes for the tool box. He rummages around for a screw driver and patiently takes off the weather stripping, screw by screw, releasing the tailless reptile. Is this Blue Belly's lucky day, or what?

It lays there, very still. 

"Is it dead?" I ask in hushed tones.

"I don't know," the Asset replies. 

I reach down to pick the poor thing up when it suddenly jumps from my fingers and lands on the floor. It does the frantic  side-to-side dance of his species that doesn't cover any real distance but must be its last, most desperate defense.  I try to catch him, but he eludes me.

"Where is he?" I ask the Asset, who is still kneeling on the hard tile floor, carefully putting his tools back in the box. "Don't step on him!"

We call where is he? back and forth like some kind of antiphonal song as we search. For one small, mostly dead critter, he sure is giving us a lot of grief.

The Asset carefully feels around his knees and feet and slowly begins to stand up. I see movement.

"Oh, he went up your pant leg!" I exclaim.

As the words are still flowing from my mouth, the Asset begins hopping on one foot while madly shaking the other and making these really odd sounds with his mouth.

"Don't step on him!" I repeat, barely getting the words out because I am laughing so hard. "We didn't go through all this to have you stomp him to death!"

Finally our poor, severely traumatized lizard literally loses his grip and drops out of the Asset's pant leg. I gently pick him up and lecture him (Blue Belly, not the Asset) as I carry him out to the rock garden. Something to the effect of you really need to hide from the kitties better, and I don't ever want to have to do this again. 

I return to the mudroom and we can't seem to stop laughing. 

"Do you know what that feels like to have a lizard holding onto your knee inside your pants?" he asks, and we giggle some more as he patiently screws the weatherstrip back on the guest house door and returns to saving the rest of the world.

Growing Old

A few weeks ago I was sitting behind my harp making music, when suddenly the little black notes seemed to be dancing. 

So I sit there, shifting my eyes from side to side, up and down. Wouldn't you know it, there's a new floater in my right eye. A totally obnoxious one.  I also notice wavy folds in my vision, and these light streaks moving up around the right edge of the same eye. It takes all the fun out of harping.

I wait a day to see what will happen. Totally obnoxious floater is still there, although the light-flashing thing really only bothers me in the dark. Hmmm.

The next day the view from my right eye is the same. I call a local optometrist and they give me the next available appointment, in two days.

I show up bright and early for the first appointment on that day. I tell them my problem. They dilate the bothersome eye and the optometrist carefully and thoroughly examines my retina. You know, the kind of examination that requires a very bright light pointed directly into your eye as you look at his left shoulder, and the top of his head, and the clock on the wall to the right...

"It looks fine," he finally says. "I can't find any little tears or anything in your retina."

He continues shining the painfully bright light in my fully dilated eyeball.

"Oh, whoa!" he says with some excitement. "I found the floater and yep, it looks just like you described it!"

"See why it's bugging me so much?" I reply. I love it when my complaints are vindicated by someone with a medical degree. Trust me, that doesn't always happen.

"Uh oh...and yep, there is some vitreous detachment there. That's what's triggering the light flashes and the wavy threads," he says very matter-of-factly.

"So what causes it?" I ask. This is really a trick question because I have already done my research on the internet. Still, I brace myself for the answer.

"It's a normal part of aging," he says, and, to his credit, he looks a bit apologetic.

"Will it heal?" I ask.

"No...these things don't heal," he says regretfully.

Is it just me, or are the answers to life's questions mostly turning out to be about growing old these days? Good thing I already had an idea of what was coming. I square my shoulders. I place my darkest sunglasses over my unequally light sensitive eyes and breathe what has recently become my most frequent prayer as I drive home.

God, please use this to consume more of my dross and to refine my gold.

On days when the list of troubles seems to be outrunning the list of blessings, I return like a thirsty woman to these soul-sustaining words:

In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that your faith - of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire - may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. Though you have not seen Him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in Him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, for you are receiving the goal of your faith, the salvation of your souls.*

Now a vitreous detachment and obnoxious floater are certainly not the worst things I've encountered in what (certain people keep reminding me) has been a loooong life. Even in this aging body of mine the eye seems to be improving. Or else I am just adapting to the new view from my right eye. Either way, I am pleased that this recent event sent my thoughts to the bigger picture. 

My time on this beautiful blue and green planet has a God-directed limit. As David wrote:

Show me, O Lord, my life's end
and the number of my days;
Let me know how fleeting is my life.
You have made my days a mere handbreadth;
the span of my years is as nothing before You.
Each man's life is but a breath. 
Man is a mere phantom as he goes to and fro;
he bustles about, but only in vain;
he heaps up wealth, not knowing who will get it.
But now, Lord, what do I look for?
My hope is in You.+ 

I'm with David on this one. My hope is in God, too. I want to live each day that He gives me as fully as I can, honoring Him in the small, seemingly repetitive and unimportant duties as well as in the opportunities for grand and wonderful things. I want to do this right up until the time He has predetermined for my final Home-going.

But in the meantime, all the things I'd prefer to avoid become tools in God's loving hands. He redeems the everyday, mundane kind of troubles just as readily as the really big, life-threatening, life-changing kinds. He uses them to make us better reflections of Jesus.

So I am learning to lift my eyes heavenward and say the prayer a bit quicker with each new trouble, be it large or small. Somehow it helps to know that these very things are designed to serve a greater purpose in my life.

I love this old hymn more and more as I get, well, older and older.

How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent Word!
What more can He say than to you He hath said 
to you, who for refuge to Jesus have fled.

"Fear not, I am with thee - O be not dismayed,
For I am thy God, I will still give thee aid;
I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
upheld by My gracious omnipotent hand.

"When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
the rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;
for I will be with thee thy troubles to bless,
and sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

"When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
my grace, all-sufficient, shall be thy supply;
the flame shall not hurt thee-I only design 
thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.

"The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,
I will not, I will not desert to his foes;
that soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I'll never - no, never - no, never forsake!"

Quite recently I discovered an additional verse that has been excluded in most hymn books. I am quite sure the outdated words would have set me giggling in church as a child, embarrassing my poor mother, and resulting in a surreptitious pinch to settle me down. 

But it is a shame, really, because its intent and meaning are quite relevant to the very thing I am trying to express. Here it is for your enjoyment. You may laugh at will without incurring bodily harm. Note that I have provided a few helpful definitions.

"Even down to old age all my people shall prove
My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;
and when hoary (white with age) hairs shall their temples adorn,
like lambs they shall still in my bosom (protective place/chest) be borne.

Lord, allow me the privilege of proving your gracious love

through everything life brings me

as my hairs continue to turn white, one by one. 

Amen

How Firm A Foundation    - Attributed to John Keith (1787) 



*1 Peter 1:6-8
+Psalm 39:4-7

Waiting On Fall

National Asset and I are sitting on the newly cleaned front porch, enjoying our lunch.

"It feels like fall," I say, and he agrees. 

But it is only mid-August. My neighbor Bobsie and I were discussing this a few days ago over fresh blackberry cobbler. Fresh, as in straight from the bushes near the reservoir to my kitchen. 

"The oak trees are already shedding their leaves," I say. 

"And the acorns are falling, too," she adds. They make a gunshot-sharp crack! when they hit blacktop or roof.

We discuss this a bit. Is fall coming early? Is it the drought? Or does this happen every August?

This will be our third autumn up in the Sierra foothills. It ties with spring as my favorite season, and its charms include welcome cooler temperatures after the hot, thirsty summer; downward drifting oak leaves and maples turning flame-colored; bushy-tailed squirrels flying through the treetops, as if playing on a giant trapeze, while they gather acorns.  

There are other signs, too. There always seems to be more spiders, or least more webs, this time of year. These industrious creatures build the most amazing gossamer labyrinths in about every corner on the property. It is common to find very tough, sticky black widow webs extending from the eaves to the deck. If we were ever to get trick-or-treaters, way down here at the end of a very dark road, we wouldn't even have to decorate. The arachnids already have it covered.

Last evening, as twilight was sinking down behind the woods, we heard a loud knocking on our front door. We looked at each other, as if we had heard something totally foreign. It is rare to hear this sound, and it was so loud and persistent that it could not be ignored. 

"The doorbell is still broken," I say, as if that explains everything.

We hurry to see who is rapping, rapping, not so gently on our chamber door. The Asset outruns me and opens it. 

There stands a boy. He is nicely dressed and about the size of Oldest Grandson. He holds a colorful flyer in his hand. He is looking for work. The Asset listens politely to his schpeel as I peek around the door jam.

When he is finished he hands me his flyer, neatly titled "NoahWorks",  and I look it over.

"I can do all kinds of jobs," he says. "My work is guaranteed to be great, or it is free."

"How old are you?" I ask.

"I turned twelve yesterday," he answers proudly.

"Are you Noah?"

"Yes, I am," he replies.

He gazes up at the corners of the porch ceiling, then back at me. 

"I can remove cobwebs," he says tactfully. 

And I think, is this kid a born salesman or what? Between cobweb removal (number 2 on his list) and pull weeds (number 10) alone, he could probably earn enough money from us during the next six years to pay for his first year of college.

He asks to have the sole copy of his 'Work Available To Do' list back, and also for my email address. I hesitate. He assures me he will guard it with the utmost care. I give it to him.

"Do you know, are there anymore houses down here?" he asks in parting.

"Nope. We are the last house," we reply.

Then he walks back up the long driveway. 

Past the trash can I had not yet hauled back down to the house (number 17: haul trash cans to curb and return when empty). 

Past the brown oak leaves that are pretty much covering everything (number 6: rake leaves). 

Past countless numbers of random dead branches laying about (number 8: pick up sticks) and on home to his mother (number 14: walk dogs, with Mom's help).

So today I get out my broom and make hay of the cobwebs on the front porch and surrounding eaves. I move our $20 yard sale wicker furniture around and give the place a good sweeping. I  discover a wasp nest on the back of the love seat and choose to ignore it. Live and let live, I say. I've been sitting there all summer without incident and see no need to provoke hard feelings with them on this beautiful day. 

I prepare grilled sourdough sandwiches, filled with mozzarella cheese and fresh farmer's market tomatoes and basil, and we bring them outside to enjoy on our clean front porch. 

And yes, from this vantage point I can picture a young boy, eager to work and earn a little money, pulling velcro plant weeds and filling in the mole holes in our dead lawn (number 9: fill in holes in yard caused by pets or pests) and learning a little bit about life in the process.

The Feet Of A Deer

In the wee hours of the night, before first light, I hear a calling from the woods. It is different from the menagerie of birds we normally hear. So different that it wakes me out of my light, early morning sleep. When I rise I try to spot the creature, but it is too difficult to determine exactly where the sound comes from. The woods play tricks with my hearing. Unless I am outdoors, it takes some work to to determine the origin of such sounds.

A little later, while driving up towards towards the gate, I spot deer next to our neighbors' fence. 

"Slow down!" I cry, and  National Asset, my kindred spirit, complies. After three years of Sanctuary life I have not yet tired of observing the animals with whom we share the woods. The Prius coasts silently to a stop. 

"Oh, there's a baby!" A doe and her fawn are pacing back and forth, back and forth, right next to the fence. We inch up the driveway, trying not to spook them. 

Then we spot a third deer, a tiny speckled baby, on the other side of the fence. This exquisite little creature is up on wobbly legs emitting the cries I had been hearing. It is much too small to get back over the fence to its mama. Naturally, I want to help.

"Maybe if Miles opens his driveway gate we can herd it around back towards the mother," I suggest. I whip out my cell phone and call the neighbor. He comes outdoors and opens the electric gate. We park the Prius and walk through. 

"We can't pick it up," Miles says. I nod in agreement.

"Can we aim it towards the gate?" I ask.

"Maybe," he says.

The three of us spread out and try to herd the little one towards the opening and its mother. But, of course, Bambi realizes Man is in the forest!! and bolts. A Blacktail fawn can stand ten minutes after birth, and walk in seven hours. We have no idea when this one was born, but before my very own eyes I watch the wobbly-legged baby morph into an incredibly graceful, fast running critter. Our neighbor's fenced-in property is not a small place, but this little guy bounds from end to end, searching for a way out, without breaking a sweat. There is no way we are going to be able to herd him anywhere.

In our well-meaning attempts to extricate the little one, we forget one very important thing: the Mother Factor. So we stand there, three mature adults, worrying about this little tyke, thinking he needs our help, when he suddenly bolts for a section of fence that borders the Hundred Acre Wood, jumps, and neatly clears the space between the top of the fence and the strands of wire strung above it. The ones that are supposed to keep deer out.


It is then that we become aware of Bambi's mother standing just on the other side of that fence, waiting for him to join them in the wild woods beyond. And we realize that all of our good intentions and efforts are completely unnecessary. Given time, she simply would have called her little one, and when he was ready and able he would have followed. Evidently, Man was not needed in the forest at all.


Still, it is a lovely thing to behold how God has fashioned each of His creatures and given them the innate knowledge to live in the unique place they call home. Even when we come and build our houses and put up our fences alongside them. 

On this Lord's Day, it makes me think of King David's words, reminding me that the same God who minds the creatures in the woods watches over me, too.

You, LORD, are my lamp;

the LORD turns my darkness into light.

With Your help I can advance against a troop;

with My God I can scale a wall.

As for God, His way is perfect;

The LORD's word is flawless;

He shields all who take refuge in Him.

For who is God besides the LORD?

And who is the Rock except our God?

It is God who arms me with strength

and keeps my way secure.

He makes my feet like the feet of a deer;

He causes me to stand on the heights.*

This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it!

*2 Samuel 22:29-34

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor

During my devotional time this morning I read these words from Psalm 9:

But the LORD abides forever;
He has established His throne for judgment,
And He will judge the world in righteousness;
He will execute judgment for the peoples with equity.
The LORD also will be a stronghold for the oppressed,
A stronghold in times of trouble;
And those who know Your name will put their trust in You,
For You, O LORD, have not forsaken those who seek You.

I have to admit that, during this sweet time of meeting with God, the first image springing to mind while pondering these words was the busload of undocumented immigrants being turned away by angry citizens in Murrieta, California.

The whole thing makes me incredibly sad. What did these men, women and children - with English skills limited to prepared statements of politically correct answers prepared by those who had teased them with the promise of a better life - what did they think when they were greeted with this terrible reception? 

Had they dreamed of open arms and smiling faces and a community prepared to provide jobs and for their physical needs as they assimilated into American culture? 

Did they understand that the anger in Murrieta wasn't personal, that it was born of frustration? That their presence was simply the match thrown on very dry tinder? 

Many years ago in high school choir I was introduced to this poem by Emma Lazarus:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

These words are mounted on the inner wall of the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty. My ancestors - tired, poor, hoping for the opportunity to make a better life - crossed the Atlantic in the bottom of big ships and came through Ellis Island in the shadow of Lady Liberty. A descendant of immigrants, I ache for the people on that bus. The glimpses I got of them, huddled there behind the windows, looked like poor, desperate people yearning for something better. For the freedom and prosperity we have become so accustomed to that we barely think about it anymore. 

But I also know that there is plenty of blame to share for what occurred in Murrieta. Perhaps our elected officials could spend more time solving problems such as this and less time worrying about things like the next election and making the other party look bad. They could stop padding the budget with pork, and pouring so much of the incredibly large amount of tax money they collect down the you-know-what, and leave some resources in local communities so that genuine, human problems (including those with our neighbors to the south) could be addressed.

I didn't call my congressman this morning. I didn't write the governor a letter. Pretty sure they would just end up in File 13. I understand that such issues as immigration are very, very complex. 

I did, however, pray along with David, the psalmist, that God, Himself would be a stronghold for the oppressed, and that He would show me what my part in all this mess is.





'Give Me Your Tired Your Poor', set to music by Irving Berlin