What's Up Doc?

Today's post is about gaining insight into ourselves through vegetables ...

Most every day for the past year I have placed a small container of baby carrots in with my lunch. My regular fare includes a sandwich or tortilla wrap, a small yogurt, and my carrots. Well, after a while, I started to question myself regarding the inclusion of the carrots in my lunch. I started to gripe and complain and grouse that every day I prepare for myself the same old thing. Day after day after day.

Where is the variety? Why not mix things up and try something new? So I did. I replaced my carrots with an apple, ..., for a day. You know what? It was then that I realized how much I missed my container of carrots. The very next day they were back. Ahh, the comfort of the usual and the known, even when we try to push it away, our hearts ache when it is gone. There is a noticeable absence, a feeling of loss. What's up doc?

Elijah

The fifth edition of Charles Swindoll's Great Lives series is entitled Elijah, A Man of Heroism and Humility, and takes us through the "biblical life" of the Hebrew prophet Elijah as detailed in the Old Testament in 1,2 Kings. I use the term "biblical life" here because Elijah bursts onto the scene in about 900 B.C. in the northern kingdom of Israel, already an older man. He is used mightily by God and then leaves this earth in a most unusual manner. He is only one of two people recorded in the scriptures who passed into God's presence directly, without experiencing death.

Elijah serves as God's appointed and anointed prophet. The kingdom of Israel is lead by King Ahab and his domineering wife Queen Jezebel. They are described as among the most wicked people on the face of the earth. Under their leadership, the kingdom has been turned away from worshipping God; all of this has occurred just a few generations after King David had left a united and God-fearing nation. Ahab and Jezebel worshipped a god known as Baal. Elijah serves as God's instrument to rid the land of Baal, along with his priests and prophets, by reminding them of the one true God. However, before Elijah is ready to be used mightily by God, he is trained to fully rely on God by hiding out during a long drought at a secluded brook and later by living with a poor woman and her son.

The pinnacle of Elijah's moment on this earth is the showdown that he sets up for the people to witness between himself and the prophets of Baal. Each side was called to erect an altar and call upon their God to rain down fire and set it ablaze. The false prophets danced and carried on for hours next to their altar and were silenced. Elijah had his altar soaked with water before he called upon God to set it alight. Of course, that is just what God did. Many people where called back to God that very day. Ultimately, Elijah, having fulfilled his calling and purpose from God, with heroism and true humiility at every step along the way, trained his successor Elisha to take his place. Now, on to the next volume in the series, Paul, A Man of Grace and Grit.

The Giving Tree

I have come to look forward to springtime in my current neighborhood for several reasons. These include the budding of the early season flowers, the greening transformation of the lawns, and the welcome emergence of the foliage on the trees. So many varied and wonderful sights that serve to provide a feast for my eyes. However, beyond all of these, there is a tree in my neighbor's yard that I have been particularly taken with. I don't know exactly what type of tree it is, but I would describe it as stately, tall, and pleasingly symmetric. In the spring, it dresses itself with beautiful white blossoms for about two weeks. I purposefully park beneath its shadow as I wait for my daughter at her bus stop. On more than one occasion, I have found myself lost in thought while staring up at it. For the past couple of years, I have been making a mental note to get a photograph of this tree when it is in full bloom, but have never managed to follow through. I would say, "next year".

The other day a storm rolled through my town. Although we braced ourselves from its winds and heavy rain, there was nothing all that unusual about it. It simply generated a stay-inside weekend. Nothing news shattering in my yard but a fresh littering of pine needles from the tall fir senties that flank my property line. Nothing to pay any real mind to. However, as I was leaving for work in the wake of that storm, my eyes spotted a fallen limb in my neighbor's yard. My heart immediately sunk and my spirits fell. I quietly uttered, no, not my tree. The break wasn't a minor twig or branch, but a main artery that had split off a sizeable section of the main trunk. As the tree was still fully dressed in its green foliage, it belied the full extent of the damage. I held out hope that it could somehow be saved. However, as I came home that evening, I was shocked to see that the whole tree was gone. Only a dusting of wood chips and bark remained from the unforgiving machines. A beautiful and peaceful arbor was gone, the ground left naked and exposed.

I know it was just a tree, but I will miss its beauty and majesty. I will miss the imagination and awe that it stirred within me as I gazed upon it. I know its absense will take a little bit of the joy and expectancy away from my next springtime.

Me Against Myself

Amy Carmichael was a protestant missionary who opened and ran an orphanage in India. She lived from 1867 to 1951 and ministered to the poorest of the poor. Her biography notes that she served without furlough for 55 years. A remarkable record and proper model of sacrificial service to be sure. I stumbled across a prayer that she had written long ago that resonated within me. Words that should turn our focus of blame, condemnation, and attention of others straight back onto ourselves.

God, harden me against myself,
  The coward with pathetic voice
  Who craves for ease and rest and joy.
Myself, arch-traitor to myself,
  My hollowest friend,
  My deadliest foe,
  My clog, whatever road I go.

Obviously, although this saint has been gone for a long time now, she is still ministering to us.

The C-Train

I have written several posts since I started this blog about maturing, about growing up and growing older. Part of this transformation with the passing years is gaining a certain amount of humbleness and needed perspective regarding our frail human nature. When we were children, most of us lived life with reckless abandon, fully convinced that nothing could ever stop us or slow us down. However, at some point in each of our lives, we come to understand that we are finite (see Invincibility Lost). For me, this moment occurred with certainty when I was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 30. For others, this moment comes later in life, perhaps when they recognize that they can't keep up with their grandchildren.

I have been living under the shadow of the tracks of the C-train for a long time now. The train passes over from time to time, always coming upon me unexpectedly. Although I never look forward to its appearance, I have learned to accept its presence and, I would say, make peace with it. Initially I was swept along through the current of those usual five steps of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. When I finally reached the point of acceptance, it was then that I found myself able to live again. It took a long time, but the bubbling fear within me eventually quelled. I can now talk about my experience not as the end of my world, but just as a part of my life, even if someday that train finally takes me away.

Recently, an older colleague of mine at work was diagnosed with lung cancer. He found out that I was a member of the C-train brotherhood and stopped by my office to talk with me. We talked about our lost invincibility and how it shapes our outlook toward tomorrow. I think by the time we were done with our conversation he felt blessed that he had already lived a long life with good health. When he left my office he then turned and winked at me, "everything else from here on out is gravy". Now that's a different train entirely.

Letter to a Memory

A philosophical question often asked goes something like this, "If a tree falls in the forest but nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" Another twist on this question goes like this, "If color is something perceived only when light enters the eye and is processed by the brain, do the clothes in our closet actually have a color in the absence of light?"

This is all just a prelude to a question that I have been pondering over the past few years. I guess it too, like those above, is some metaphysical machination. If a letter is written but never is read by its intended, what happens to the emotions recorded by that pen's ink?

I have written several letters where I poured my heart and feelings out on the page, that were never read by anyone but me. A piece of my soul is sent out looking for connection, only to be missed or ignored. Return to sender. I have also been told that sometimes when feelings or expressions of regret become bottled up inside us, a good way to set ourselves free from their incessant pressure and presence in our mind is to write a letter and then burn that letter. I guess this is a symbolic gesture of burial or release. It seems like writing a letter to a memory.

Nature Issues

I have had it with nature, had it right up here I tell you! At every turn it seems to be against me. I always seem to be either too hot or too cold. When I need to work in the yard it rains. When my flowers and grass need rain, the unrelenting sun withers them to ash. If it's not the weather, it's the critters and bugs that attack me non-stop. They invade. They bite. They buzz. They are relentless. They don't know the meaning of the term "personal space". Mark my words nature. You shall be hearing from me in the sternest of terms. I plan to write a strongly worded letter I do.

The latest episode of outright mockery occurred just in the last month. I carefully and painstakingly prepared my yard. I put down the broadleaf weed killer. I put down the soil preparation nuggets. I spread the grass seed. For two days I dragged the sprinkler all around my yard, making sure that every precious grass seed was nourished and cared for with that essential liquid element of life. I looked after the seeds. I spoke to them. I sang them flagrant words of show-tunery for goodness sake. I bitterly and endlessly complained about all the hassles involved in watering that stinking, rassen-frassen yard. Sure would be nice if nature cooperated a bit and some rain came earthward.

The very next day, nature came through. I thought that we were beginning to make some progress in our relationship. After about an hour of non-stop heavy rain, I let nature know that my yard had received enough water and that it could turn off the valves. But no. It rained continuously for the next four days. It rained so much over my yard that the Atlantic Ocean was noticeably depleted. Heretofore unknown Spanish galleons were laying on dry ground up and down the east coast. Bah! I say bah! About two weeks later, my pathetic yard was still as brown as an over-cooked dinner roll, yet grass was sprouting up unchecked in every flower bed and off-limits area on my property. Thanks ever so much nature. You should look out for that letter. Mark my words.