Monday, November 8, 2010
(edit to Black Walnut)
(Oops....that was supposed to be "ever" higher in the last sentence - not "every!")
The Black Walnut Tree
Whenever I visit our son in Lafayette, I also reconnect with the gigantic old black walnut tree that stands in the yard just outside the window of the room where I sleep. The very long branches of this veteran-of-a-tree seem to reach up imploringly toward the heavens with a posture of worship and praise. Black-crusted fruits (hull-covered nuts) still fall hopefully to the ground every fall as a promise of new life.
Its rough bark and gnarled, scarred trunk - where whole limbs have been severed - stand as evidence that all living things are marked in due time by the rigors of age, but also that such experience yields something more than a mature physical presence: character. Despite a few shabby features, the black walnut seems stately not only in posture and visage, but also in its very LIFE.
Several years ago there was casual mention made that the tree should come down; that it could obliterate the comparatively small house in the event of a bad wind. However, such a crushing fall doesn’t seem a serious threat, so the idea was overruled. It would be no small thing to take the life of such a senior citizen of this picturesque valley.
I identify with the walnut tree in a variety of ways, particularly in regard to rootedness and longevity. But perhaps especially at night I’m magnetized as it stands in the soft glow of the outdoor security light with stars twinkling through its outstretched branches that reach for the sky. It has grown in a specific geographical place, changed during a defined chronological duration due to seasons of growth and dormancy (as well as life-altering storms), and is no longer the same tree it once was. It knows to reach higher....reach every HIGHER. I can say the same.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Ten
Ten is a pretty good age, as proven by our grandson, Caleb, at his tenth birthday party yesterday. A ten-year-old is still young enough to act like a kid (without apology), but old enough to appreciate what might have been taken for granted not so long ago.
The party was defined by two same-aged friends who played football in the back yard, two sets of grandparents, an older cousin, a lego-block-shaped marble cake, a homemade pin-the-light-sabre-on-the-knight game, and a handful of gifts including a real-for-sure Red Rider b-b-gun…PERFECT!
It was a simple but personalized, home-style celebration without the cookie-cutter sameness of commercialized one-size-fits-all McDonald’s or Chuck-e-Cheese parties. Nice time; good memories; special day.
On a scale of one to ten, I’d say it was a ten!
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Pudgy Pies
I’m in Lafayette again for a few days, and last night we had a crisp-fallish-air campfire with some young adult friends and a couple of sweet little preschool kiddos. One highlight of the evening? PUDGY PIES!
Here’s the deal, to quote a well-practiced pudgy pie maker who gave us a short tutorial….
First you pudge (cram) a slice of buttered bread into one half of the pudgy pie iron, buttered-side down. Then you pudge (load) the bread with a preferred pudge (filling), in this case a homemade version of something close to apple pie goo that I’d concocted earlier especially for this pudgy-pie purpose. The pudge (filling) should not quite reach the edges of the bread, to allow for sealing, and yet be mounded just-so in a definitively pudgy-sort-of-way.
Next you pudge (cram) another slice of buttered bread in the other half of the pudgy pie iron, also buttered side down, and then lock the two sides of the iron together. Then wham, you pudge (crimp) the pudge (iron) so the bread and filling make a pudge (pie).
Pudge (heat) the iron over hot coals until the butter sizzles and the bread is nicely toasted. Then pudge (turn) the iron to toast the other side. Open carefully, turn out the pudge (finished pocket-pie), and pudge-out!
Very pudgy instructions; very pudgy stuff!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Celebrating!
I just got the results from last week's FaithWriters contest when the topic was "writing a letter." My hands are still shaking as I celebrate my entry's FIRST PLACE! This is particularly exciting since the site recently began using "professional" rather than volunteer judges. I'll post it here....
________________
A Man of Few Words
Brett’s body lay lodged against a pine tree in a crumpled heap. His face ached with cold, and his extremities felt like dead stumps. Each shallow, labored breath stung.
How long had he been unconscious, he wondered? Brett groggily scanned his surroundings to discover the canary-yellow Cessna - a twisted heap of snow-covered wreckage. A quick glance at the pilot’s dismembered body affirmed his fears: he was alone on this mountain.
He’d planned to spend some time with the pilot at the hangar upon landing, and wasn’t expected home until well after dark. Would rescuers know to come? Would he find shelter for the night, or become easy prey for wolves?
Burning pain erupted along the full length of his right side when he tried to stand. He rolled his body away from the prickly tree branches and sprawled out on his back, grimacing at a glassy, gray-and-gauzy sun hanging in the late afternoon sky. His breath rose in gentle puffs and then quickly dispersed. The groaning whine of the pines deafened his pounding heart.
Twenty feet away a birch tree displayed its typical peeling white bark. With the determination of a mortally wounded animal, Brett rolled back on his stomach and approached the tree, using his bent elbows as picks in the snow.
He tore off a wide strip of bark with his teeth and found its underside as smooth as paper. With numb, unfeeling hands, Brett unzipped his coat and fumbled for the ballpoint pen he kept in an inside pocket. Somehow he maneuvered the pen to his mouth, remembering the way a quadriplegic had orally mastered the use of both a pen and an artist’s brush.
Although Brett’s body had been crushed, his spirit told him he must survive long enough to write a letter.
“D …” The letter was too big, and he lost control of the pen. A jagged line zig-zagged across the bark.
He tried again. “Deb.” His wife’s name was scratchy, but legible.
What did he need to say? He shook his head as if to clear the mental fog. Platitudes like “I love you,” even if redefined, meant nothing now.
For many years Brett had chided Deb. “You love your Jesus more than you do me, Deborah!” In reality, her relationship with the Lord inspired her zeal and sacrificial love for her husband.
“Y …” Could he finish the word? “You …”
Those first two scritch-scratched words filled the entire piece of bark. He craned his neck to peck and gnaw at the tree like a deranged woodpecker-turned-beaver. Eventually he ripped another strip of bark: page two.
“ … were …” His teeth chattered, but he steadied the pen by applying pressure and using his bent knee as a desk.
“ … rig … “ Five letters? It seemed an impossible assignment! “ … right …”
The sun dropped below the horizon, and only a stale glow remained. Light would soon fade. He must hurry. Again, he stripped bark – a smaller piece this time.
“ … about … “ Another five-letter marathon word, but it came easier this time. Only one more left, but his mind seemed fuzzy. Surely it would be all right to rest for just a moment; to take a little nap.
A branch snapped in the wind overhead, jostling him. NO NAP! He MUST finish this letter, despite the fact that an unrealistically small writing space remained. Mustering courage, he shaped the first letter of this final word.
“ … J …” His head fell back against the birch tree. He had no strength.
The open sky heard Brett’s whisper – a mere shadow of his usually deep bass voice: “God! Help … me … write … this.”
The frozen mammoth-of-a-man tucked the pen deep inside his cheek and clenched his teeth to hold it firm.
“ … e … s … u … “
One more letter! It must fit in that miniscule space at the edge of the bark.
“ … s …”
Brett clumsily jammed the three pieces of bark inside his unzipped coat and flopped facedown in the snow, exhausted. He closed his eyes in the mountain twilight, but was not alone as the wind sang its hymn of praise in the trees. The death angel hovered expectantly with protective, outstretched wings, and the Lord Himself drew nigh. “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
And now Deb would know.
________________
A Man of Few Words
Brett’s body lay lodged against a pine tree in a crumpled heap. His face ached with cold, and his extremities felt like dead stumps. Each shallow, labored breath stung.
How long had he been unconscious, he wondered? Brett groggily scanned his surroundings to discover the canary-yellow Cessna - a twisted heap of snow-covered wreckage. A quick glance at the pilot’s dismembered body affirmed his fears: he was alone on this mountain.
He’d planned to spend some time with the pilot at the hangar upon landing, and wasn’t expected home until well after dark. Would rescuers know to come? Would he find shelter for the night, or become easy prey for wolves?
Burning pain erupted along the full length of his right side when he tried to stand. He rolled his body away from the prickly tree branches and sprawled out on his back, grimacing at a glassy, gray-and-gauzy sun hanging in the late afternoon sky. His breath rose in gentle puffs and then quickly dispersed. The groaning whine of the pines deafened his pounding heart.
Twenty feet away a birch tree displayed its typical peeling white bark. With the determination of a mortally wounded animal, Brett rolled back on his stomach and approached the tree, using his bent elbows as picks in the snow.
He tore off a wide strip of bark with his teeth and found its underside as smooth as paper. With numb, unfeeling hands, Brett unzipped his coat and fumbled for the ballpoint pen he kept in an inside pocket. Somehow he maneuvered the pen to his mouth, remembering the way a quadriplegic had orally mastered the use of both a pen and an artist’s brush.
Although Brett’s body had been crushed, his spirit told him he must survive long enough to write a letter.
“D …” The letter was too big, and he lost control of the pen. A jagged line zig-zagged across the bark.
He tried again. “Deb.” His wife’s name was scratchy, but legible.
What did he need to say? He shook his head as if to clear the mental fog. Platitudes like “I love you,” even if redefined, meant nothing now.
For many years Brett had chided Deb. “You love your Jesus more than you do me, Deborah!” In reality, her relationship with the Lord inspired her zeal and sacrificial love for her husband.
“Y …” Could he finish the word? “You …”
Those first two scritch-scratched words filled the entire piece of bark. He craned his neck to peck and gnaw at the tree like a deranged woodpecker-turned-beaver. Eventually he ripped another strip of bark: page two.
“ … were …” His teeth chattered, but he steadied the pen by applying pressure and using his bent knee as a desk.
“ … rig … “ Five letters? It seemed an impossible assignment! “ … right …”
The sun dropped below the horizon, and only a stale glow remained. Light would soon fade. He must hurry. Again, he stripped bark – a smaller piece this time.
“ … about … “ Another five-letter marathon word, but it came easier this time. Only one more left, but his mind seemed fuzzy. Surely it would be all right to rest for just a moment; to take a little nap.
A branch snapped in the wind overhead, jostling him. NO NAP! He MUST finish this letter, despite the fact that an unrealistically small writing space remained. Mustering courage, he shaped the first letter of this final word.
“ … J …” His head fell back against the birch tree. He had no strength.
The open sky heard Brett’s whisper – a mere shadow of his usually deep bass voice: “God! Help … me … write … this.”
The frozen mammoth-of-a-man tucked the pen deep inside his cheek and clenched his teeth to hold it firm.
“ … e … s … u … “
One more letter! It must fit in that miniscule space at the edge of the bark.
“ … s …”
Brett clumsily jammed the three pieces of bark inside his unzipped coat and flopped facedown in the snow, exhausted. He closed his eyes in the mountain twilight, but was not alone as the wind sang its hymn of praise in the trees. The death angel hovered expectantly with protective, outstretched wings, and the Lord Himself drew nigh. “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
And now Deb would know.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
No Mask
Today I held Carter, a precious three-week-old baby boy, in my arms. With only inches between us, he stared me down as if we were long lost soul mates from some other era or dimension who had suddenly reconnected; soul mates who knew each other through-and-through.
I’ve seen this look before. It’s an innocent, probing-yet-knowing, penetrating-to-the-bone look without any trace of pretense or distraction.
It got me thinking.
Perhaps at birth we are perfectly “real” by virtue of inherent God-like-ness. Perhaps that “realness” gets covered up as we, in our self-absorption, learn to refocus on everything EXCEPT what is “real,” and then spend our entire lives seeking to recapture it.
Jesus wasn’t kidding when his disciples were haggling about which one was the greatest among them. He didn’t say, “Grow up, guys.” Instead He said, “You must change and become like little children.”
Perhaps baby Carter had a message for me today. I don’t want to miss it.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Nuggets
I grabbed a piece of scratch paper and scribbled a few quotes from a book on Katie’s coffee table today, then later decided to record them here. The book was on the topic of finances, but the counsel it contained went far beyond dollars and cents.
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through the experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened. – Helen Keller
Success is going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm. – Winston Churchill
If you want something you’ve never had, you’ll have to do something you’ve never done….If you keep doing what you have always done, you will keep getting the same results you’ve always gotten….Not until the pain of the same is greater than the pain of change will you embrace pain. - Dave Ramsey
Hope is one of the greatest gifts one human being can ever give to another. – Ashleigh Clayton
I don’t know what your destiny will be, but one thing I know; the only ones among you who will be really happy are those who will have sought and found how to serve. - Albert Schweitzer
When we walk to the edge of the light we have and take that step into the darkness of the unknown, we must believe that one of two things will happen: there will be something solid for us to stand on or God will teach us how to fly. – Patrick Overton
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