The Seeds We Plant

The Seeds We Plant

We moved into the church parsonage here in eastern Washington late October of last year. It’s about fifty years old but an adequate house situated only about three blocks from the church where I am serving as interim pastor. The front and back yards are small, with landscaped flower beds wrapping around the house and garage. No one told us what was planted in the beds. No one told us what to expect once winter ended. In the last few weeks at least a hundred bulbs have broken through the thawed ground and although there has been no bloom, I am confident that soon this house we call home for a few more months will be surrounded by color, bathed in the hues of spring. We live in a beauty imagined and created by the hearts and hands of others.
In this season of birth and new growth and in a place gardened by others, I am reminded of the power of planting seeds. I am reminded of the hope that emerges in the hearts of planters, how diligently farmers and gardeners rake and plow and dig and make way for life. Every year lovers of the earth go to nurseries and stores, purchase the seeds or bulbs that offer possibilities, and in faith, with care and hope, drop them into the earth in joyful anticipation. Most plant gardens for themselves but some folks, like the anonymous members of this church, hearty ones who love to landscape and care for church properties, plant their bulbs and seeds for others.
It is the same in spiritual gardens. We plant seeds of kindness, faith, hope, joy, love, peace, and patience in our own hearts, hoping to enjoy the bounty of our work and desire. We plant seeds within our souls, toiling with tools to grow spiritual gifts that we look forward to see come to fruition. We pray and study and meditate and practice for us to become patient, to become kind, to become people of peace and love. It is the harvest of our work for our own souls. But we also plant seeds in the hearts of others, in temporary places, in organizations, places of worship, in souls of those who may or may not ever know our names. We plant seeds without having to reap the bounty. We plant seeds without needing to watch the garden grow. We plant seeds letting the hope of what might come, the power of what may spring forth, the joy we expect for someone else, to be reason enough to keep planting.
I’m sure I could ask the church membership who planted these bulbs that grow in perfectly-spaced rows, filling the beds in the front and back yards of the parsonage and someone would give me names; but likely, I will not. Instead as they pop and bloom I will think of the people in my life who planted seeds within my soul and never saw what grew. I will think of grandmothers and teachers, the parents of my adolescent friends, the authors of books that shaped me, the countless words of wisdom from others that fell like seeds in my soul and have finally begun to bloom. I will think of planting my own seeds, being kind to strangers, writing words of hope, working for justice and peace, and learn how to be content with just the planting. It takes faith to grow a garden you don’t get to harvest. It takes faith to plant a seed. I know because I live this season in the center of someone else’s hopes for spring.

Finding What Was Lost

It is Easter and I have been thinking about resurrection and finding life where there has been death. I have been thinking about heaven and what it might be like when we pass from this world to the next.

I remember reading once that heaven was the place where things that are lost would be found. I like that thought because throughout my life I have lost a lot of things. Some of those things were able to be replaced, keys and books, for instance, articles of clothing, pieces of jewelry, poems or photographs. Others were not. I may have bought something new to take the place of the thing that is missing, but somehow it never fully satisfied me in the way the first thing, the lost thing, had done. Other things could never be replaced. Friends, for example, people I cared about who wandered in and then one day out of my life, leaving without a forwarding address. Moments of unfettered grace in which I can’t exactly call up the circumstances any more but I still know they happened. My innocence that fell away in pieces and my naïveté about the intentions and motivations of some people that seemed to have been lost in one fell swoop. I have lost, and regret having done so, the way loved ones, dead now, looked when they were content and what it was that used to make me laugh so hard that my face hurt.

I lost my fearlessness when I fell off the back of a motorcycle and I lost my need to be the best or win first place when I discovered that not everything in life is about winning. I lost the knowledge and anticipation that my plans will turn out as I expect and the notion that bad things won’t happen to good people. Not all of the things I lost, therefore, are missed or necessary or important. But sometimes I would just like to see them again just to remember what it was that I used to think was so wonderful about them. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that chance, of course because even though I believe in heaven, I don’t really know what it will be like. And if I’m honest, even in this season of Easter, I don’t know if Jesus physically rose from the dead either. I guess somewhere along the way I lost the need for that kind of certainty too. If pushed I would say I like the thought of heaven as a grand place of love and sweet reunions and I like the thought of Jesus, up from the grave, skipping down the street holding hands with a friend who didn’t go anywhere and laughing about what he had missed in the three days he was gone.

Truthfully, part of the reason I’m a pastor, a bearer of good news, is because I’d like to be the one to tell him, “don’t worry, one day soon, you’ll get it all back.”

The Calm Waters

One of the rules for whitewater rafting reads, “Rest when you get to a calm place because there is going to be more whitewater.” I have found this rule to be relevant not just for rafting but also in life. I have not, however, always paid attention to this bit of wisdom. In my younger days, I misused the calm places by worrying about what I assumed was likely downstream. I spent my calm and uneventful days waiting for the other shoe to drop, anxious about what failure or trouble was around the bend. I never fully enjoyed the calm places because I could only think about the next spot of whirling waters and how easily it would be to drown.

The older I get, however, the easier I have found resting to be. Maybe it’s just because I’m old and I find I have less energy for being anxious about tomorrow or about what may or may not be coming my way. Sometimes yesterday’s paddling wears me out so much, I need today just to recuperate. Maybe I am just old and tired but at least I finally know how to enjoy a good rest when I’m given one.

The truth is, I have never really loved the whitewaters of life. Even though I know there are times when I have made my own turbulence, created my own undertows and dangerous currents, I have always preferred an easier ride downstream. I’m not one of those people who always seem to swim against the tide or who doesn’t feel alive unless they’re paddling against crashing waves and dodging rocks or maneuvering long drops. I know folks like that but their lifestyle and their dramas always make me weary.

Yet and still, there’s no way to avoid the swirling torrents. Life is after all, full of whitewater. There is always a crisis we had not expected, trouble we hadn’t planned for, waves of grief and disappointment that seem to emerge from nowhere. Whitewater is ahead but that doesn’t mean we need to be afraid or worried, although, it certainly helps if we are prepared. Wearing a life vest is wise. Having faith can keep a person from becoming lost to the trouble. Learning a few skills, correct paddling, how to hold and set the oars, can keep the raft from flipping. Understanding how to navigate trouble, knowing healthy responses, where to go for help, will keep you afloat. And how we look at whitewater can make a difference too. Trouble can actually be a time of great learning, an opportunity to grow. Whitewater can make us strong.

I’m able to rest in calm waters because I don’t fight what I know is coming anymore. I accept the whitewater and am confident that what I have on the raft, what I have learned over the years, all my resources and experience is enough, and the fact that I trust the direction of the river, keeps me from too much anxiety. The calm places are a blessing, a gift, and I am glad that I know how to rest in them. It has taken a long time but at least I finally recognize a good thing when I see it. I lay back, let the current carry me, close my eyes and let the sun warm me, and I don’t worry too much. Whitewater is coming but for the first time in my life I trust that I’ll be ready.

Finding the Sign We Need

There is a hand-painted sign in the desert where my dog and I walk every day. It’s large, a 4 x 4 weathered piece of plywood and the letters, about six inches high, are block shaped, cobalt blue, and easily noticed in the dull brown landscape of New Mexico.

“Please don’t give up on me,” it reads and it is propped against a small Russian olive tree, the only tree in the small walking area off Tramway Road. The patch of land is owned by the city and is protected by the Flood Authority Office of Albuquerque. It’s situated between a housing division and an apartment complex and there are trails and loops used by joggers, dogs and walkers, mountain bikers, and horses with their riders. It is a wonderful place to be outside and enjoy the high desert atmosphere.

I saw the sign for the first time about a month ago. I don’t know who made it or who placed it near the tree along one of the trails. Perhaps it is the same person who put stones around the trunk of the Russian olive or the same one who strategically places large boulders along the path to discourage drivers from operating their motor vehicles across the desert. I suppose the sign refers to the tree, a message to anyone who would run over it or destroy it in some way. Seeing something, especially a tree, survive in the desert can make the most cynical of people become a little sentimental.

I have also considered that the sign hasn’t anything at all to do with the tree but is instead a re quest about a relationship, a plea begging a lover not to leave. I think of some young man, desperate not to lose his sweetheart, making a sign, leaning it against a tree on a trail where he knows she’s bound to walk. It is a message from his heart asking her for one more chance at love.
I don’t know what the sign means, who is asking for what. I only know that it touches me, reminds me of the frailty of love, the unpredictability of relationships, and the delicate balance we always seek of knowing when to hold on and when to let go, when to fight and when to quit, when to say, “I’ve done all I can do,” and when to say, “I will not give up.” I imagine learning that balance takes more than a lifetime and probably more than a few signs to guide us.
Yesterday, I stopped by the tree on my early morning walk. I studied the sign and then poured the water from my bottle all along the narrow, spindly trunk. Carmella, my dog, sat, respectfully observing my small blessing. She sniffed the air, her long golden snout lifted slightly, and turned again to me. I nodded and she stood and we finished our walk and went home.

I’m not sure of the significance of my gift. I’m not sure that it benefits the tree or that it addresses the concern posted on the piece of plywood. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Water in the desert, after all, is always a blessing and maybe that’s all the maker of the placard wanted. Somebody, somewhere, honoring their plea, somebody not giving up. I suppose, when it comes right down to it, that’s really the sign most of us are longing to find.

A New Beginning

Texan journalist Browning Ware tells the story of a school boy who was having an awful time with his classroom assignment. Each time he went to the teacher to ask for help he had to mark through his work and begin again. By the time he had finally finished with the assignment, his paper was a mess. Filled with answers scratched through, notes written on the margins, small holes where he had erased too many times, he was ashamed of the work he had to turn in. The teacher, noticing his embarrassment and his untidy assignment, called him to her desk. As he stood before her, his work held in his hands behind his back, she reached in the drawer beside her. “Here,” she whispered and handed him a sheet of paper from her own pack. “Why don’t you use a clean piece of paper? Why don’t you start over?”
I love January because it is the month when we get a clean piece of paper. It’s the month when we get to begin again, get our do-over. It is the first month, the beginning of another year. Having noted that, however, we must understand of course, that there’s not anything wrong with having a messy paper or a messy life. Messiness is, after all, a sign of humanity and honesty; it’s what life is really all about. But I just think when we get a clean piece of paper, have a new beginning, especially when we have an answer, it’s nice to feel that feeling of being able to start over, try once more, leave behind our mistakes and wrongdoings from the past and begin again.
I am rarely able to keep my resolutions, which is probably why I have the same ones every year. I resolve to drink more water and not talk as much but I always seem to manage the same results. By March I’m back to the diet sodas and unceasing chatter. I also resolve every year to be more patient and a better friend. Unfortunately, just like the lack of water and silence, I fail miserably every time I make the effort. But I love the knowledge that I get another chance to try again, try and do better, try to be better. And even though my growth may appear minimal, I do think I manage at least one more right answer a year. And somehow, the starting over helps. Even if I begin the new year knowing that I’ll mess up this page too, that my mistakes will likely outnumber the right answers, I still like the sense of being able to have a fresh start.
The school boy in Ware’s story took a long time, making a lot of mistakes, filling up an entire page with his errors before he finally got to the answer; but he got there. And when he had his right answer, he got to begin again. My life is filled with stumbles and falls and long periods of heading in the wrong direction; but once a year I get a new piece of paper. I get to begin again. And even as the year ends and my paper is filled with mistakes and holes, I look to January, an answer in hand and a fresh start, and I think, maybe this year I’ll get it just right.

Saints and Thanksgiving

Since it is November, the month of the celebration of All Saints Day and Thanksgiving, I have been thinking with gratitude about the people in my life who I have declared as saints. It might surprise you that topping my list are not the names of seminary professors, famous preachers, or great heroes of the faith. My saints are not known and recognized by others as truly great persons. Instead, they would mostly be described as common folks, ordinary people.

My mother-in-law was a saint. She died a couple of years ago. She never went to college, worked as an ice cream dipper most of her youth. She was a single mother for seventeen years, raising my husband by herself along with the help of her parents and siblings, before she married a sailor and moved south. She would never talk much about that time. I think she was ashamed that she had given birth out of wedlock and she could never find a way to forgive herself for that. And yet, that shame never defined her. Nothing harsh or heavy ever defined her. She was as simple as she was kind, compassionate as she was gentle. From the very first moment I met her, she welcomed me into her heart as the daughter she never had. And unlike all the other stories about mother-in-laws I have heard, the story of my relationship with my mother-in-law was a story of unconditional love and acceptance. She is on my roll call of saints because she was exactly the woman she showed herself to be, nobody more, nobody less. She’d give you the clean and pressed blouse off of her back and tell you when you were done wearing it to pass it on to somebody else. She never met a stranger and I never heard her say a hurtful thing about another living soul.

There’s another saint on my list, a man whose name I no longer recall, a Baptist preacher from West Virginia. He was a chaplain who helped train me and I remember him telling me the story of why he kept his cigarettes in his front shirt pocket. He said he was an addict of cigarette smoking and he saw no reason to hide it. Admonished and criticized by the other staff at the hospital, he kept his cigarettes out front where everybody could see them. He said he didn’t understand it but that when he kept his pack in his front pocket he noticed that the patients in the hospital and their family members were more likely to talk to him so that even though he was reprimanded time and time again, he kept it there. He said a few of his patients told him that if he struggled with an addiction like smoking then probably he could understand their struggles and they weren’t afraid to confess what it was that was really troubling them. That Baptist preacher taught me about being real, being honest, and even though I don’t carry cigarettes in my front pocket, I’ll never forget the importance of not hiding my sins or my sorrows, my disappointments or my doubts. Not everybody wants to see the human side of preachers but most people who are troubled appreciate the honesty.

I used to think that saints were those folks who did things I could never do, showed great courage or accomplished extraordinary feats but I don’t think that anymore. This Thanksgiving I am grateful to have learned that anybody can be a saint. If an ice cream dipping single mother can live her life with an open and loving heart and a Baptist preacher isn’t afraid to show the world his bad habits, I suppose even I have a shot at sainthood. For now, however, I’m satisfied with just being thankful with learning how to recognize a real saint.

The Burden of a Grudge

I received a call awhile back inviting the church to participate in a campaign for a local radio station. The man who called was very professional, albeit a little pushy, and very well-informed about St. Paul’s. He gave his marketing plan and I listened to the entire pitch. Once he outlined the pricing program, I explained that this church is very small and operates on a very limited budget. I politely declined his offer. After my third decline, he yelled some final remark and slammed down his receiver.

I confess that the phone conversation and especially how it ended made me mad. I confess that it made me so mad I wanted to let somebody know just how mad I was. I flipped through the yellow pages, found the number for the radio station he represented, picked up the phone to dial the number, and then stopped. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I am a new pastor in the community and that perhaps I needed to refrain from making the call. Perhaps, I thought, it would be best for the church and for my reputation if I just ignored the conversation. I did, however, decide that I would forever hold a grudge against this radio station and would always wait for the day when I would be able to let them know just how rude I thought their employee was to me.

And then, I thought about that. I realized forever is a long time to hold a grudge and that maybe that was actually a worse reaction than just making the call. At least, I thought, if I call and lodge my complaint, I’ll be better able to just let it go. So, that’s what I did. I called the radio station, asked to speak to speak to someone in management, and was immediately connected to the assistant manager. I explained what had happened and that I felt angry to have been treated in this manner and that I thought the radio station supervisors might like to know how I experienced their marketing endeavor.

There was a pause and then finally, this reply. “Ma’am,” the young woman said, “we’re not participating in that kind of marketing endeavor. I don’t know who called you; but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a person on our staff.”

It turns out it was a scam. It was some professional con artist trying to get money from churches. The man did not represent the radio station. The managers knew nothing about this phone call or this campaign targeting local churches.

Of course, I am very glad I made the call, and not because I learned new information about scams and the need for caution in talking finances with strangers on the phone. I’m glad I made the call to the radio station because I learned the lesson once again that sometimes the things we hear are not always the things we need to believe. Holding a grudge is a very serious decision to make and usually not the best one. Forever, after all, is a very long time and an unfounded grudge is nothing but dead weight. Perhaps, like a phone call that’s a scam, it’s best not to pick it up in the first place.