Intertwined, Uprooted

It is spring here: the height of our gardening season. One recent afternoon saw me out in the garden, collecting sprigs of oregano, leaves of basil, bunches of parsley, and other green goodness for our evening meal.

Last, I headed to collect some mint.

Ours resides in a cement ring, to be raised above the flooding of the rains.

It is high season for mint.

The pot is full and green as I approach it from across the yard.

But mint is not all that grows there this spring.

Clover crowds in, vying for space in the damp warmth.

The clover has been at its work for a while now,

winding vines and runners around those of mint.

Unseen, ignored.

The two are intertwined.

Clearing the clover will take time, patience, effort:

but a necessary task if the mint is to survive, to thrive,

to send deep and spreading roots through its earthen home.

Should the rains arrive while the mint

is weakened by competition

and overcrowding,

it may not survive the onslaught - up to 120 inches of rain - in the space of a few weeks.

This particular clover is serious about gaining the upper hand.

Already, it is flowering, preparing to bear seed.

And so, I begin: painstakingly tracing out and removing

each root, each leaf,

each trailing stem seeking to put roots in yet another part of the pot.

It is tedious work, this uprooting of established weeds.

My legs ache from crouching low over the mess.

The sun beats hot on my back.

Other work beckons from the kitchen.

But this seems important, vital work somehow.

Why do I care today, about mint and weeds?

And then it comes, the soft voice in my mind,

showing me why mint matters on this busy

'company's coming for dinner' afternoon:

Sin -- all sin -- edges into life in the same way as

clover has forced its way into this pot.

It creeps into some unwatched corner -

a tendril from a neighbor,

a seed from a passing friend

- it slips in unnoticed

and makes quick work of spreading roots and seeds,

and destruction.

A little gossip here, a seed of impatience there;

of what importance is a few moments of sloth, or a tendril of unbelief?

Yet soon, sin - or clover - has done its work

and we are far from where we could have been

from where we - and HE - wants us to be.

A friend has come, to aid in clearing the weeds.

The work shared is simpler, less painful,

with tinges of

joy?

Can it be that the painful work of rooting out sin is easier when shared?

The work is done
leaving gaps and scarred dirt where beautiful
yet ugly weeds once grew.

Pulling up sin leaves scars
empty spaces
waiting to be filled.

The weed will return if I am not careful
vigilant
removing each trace of clover's rebirth.

The sin will return if I am not prayerful
vigilant
letting Him root out each attempt of sin to return.


Thank you for the lesson of mint and weeds,
for being the REMARKABLE in the unremarkable of life.


photos from our mint patch

Wounds

I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.

- Augusten Burroughs

This is us, really. In our natural, sinful state. Flaws, sins, shortcomings, insufficiencies. And we try, so dilligently, to hold all these pieces together into something that resembles wholeness; something that will fool others into thinking we "have it all together."

I tried last night - when the dog bit Wonder Boy in the face and he needed three stitches on his nose. He chose me to accompany him to the hospital for the stitches. I would have rather stayed home while Daddy went. It was late and I was so tired, having gotten up at 5:15 for our trip back home after a week away. We walked up to the hospital (a benefit of living here is the surgeon is our neighbor, and the hospital is a 2 minute walk away). We waited while he and the nurse readied the place and the equipment. Wonder Boy was so brave - asking only: "Tell me when he's gonna' stick the needle in."

But me - not so brave. My stomach started churning. I got flushed and dizzy. The doctor/neighbor noticed that I was not doing so well and had a stool fetched, while I squatted on the floor, trying not to faint. He kindly reassured me that I should not be embarrassed: "this is a very normal reaction," he said. But I was embarrassed - believing that having a panic attack / fainting spell while my SON was the one in pain and having stitches somehow made me less of a mom, less of a person. Where do these voices come from? The Enemy, I know, whispers into our weakest moments: "You are garbage. You are not worthy of being a mom. You are a failure for not protecting your child."

I did fail, last night - not by not keeping the dog from biting - that was an accident, and the wounds will heal. I failed to keep the ragged, ugly edges of myself stitched together, despite my good intentions. Most days, I keep things well sewn-up. But I think God writes difficult pages into our stories precisely so that we will be unable to stay in one piece. It is in our brokenness that we cry out: "Save me, Lord, for I am sinking!"

When I called, you answered me;

you increased my strength within me.
Psalm 138:4

And he answers. And we survive, more broken, and yet more healed than before. That is grace.

Gratitude goes on . .

52.  Little girl's giggles as she discovers the joys of planting beans.

53. Hard work well done.

54. Learning together.

Just a thought

From iGoogle's Quotes of the Day:

In the United States there is more space where nobody is than where anybody is. That is what makes America what it is.
  - Gertrude Stein

I think this is part of why we find life here sometimes challenging.  We are used to the idea of space.

One place I'd rather not eat . . .

No. other. comment.

Random Thoughts

The weather has turned cold here.  Two nights this week have reached 60.  The children wake up and shiver, rooting around for blankets in the hidden corners.  How used to the heat we have become.  But the poor feel the cold most of all.  They do not - cannot - eat enough to produce extra body heat.

My garden is growing.  Beans are reaching for the sky, lettuce trying to peek through.  The tomato plants are gorgeous - sprouting new leaves nearly every day. But the carrots are being rebellious.  They seem to prefer dying underground to growing toward the light.

School is nearly finished for the year.  Songs and prayers, sums, wars, alphabets, and radish sprouts all studied, ingested, retold.  And we are changed for the doing of it.  Perhaps the teacher-mommy most of all.

A local girl, without a father, and with a mother whose new husband does not want her around, has found in me a soft spirit.  She is certainly in need.  Her grandfather, upon whom she relies for shelter, is badly disabled with leprosy.  But I am limited by how little of her need I can understand.  She had no shoes, it seems.  She has no sweater for these cool nights, or so she tells me.  It may very well be truth, but I can not read between the lines.  I can not see into her soul.  I must ask others to do this for me.  So I have given a little - our eldest's  sandals, too small for her by a bit, but something; a little food; some clothes for a younger sibling.  But mostly, I wait to see what our co-workers can discern of her true need.  It is hard to know how to help best.

A 4-year-old-girl's evening prayer brought a chuckle:  "Dear Jesus, thank you for Mommy and Daddy and me and everybody in the whole world and my brothers and the neighbors and my friends, and that man to get out of jail (she refers to a colleague).  And thank you that they live in a wood house and everything is ok. (??? perhaps the beavers in the Narnia book we are reading?) And Amen.  I said AMEN!

Little moments stitched together.  This is life.

Thankfulness

So many things to be thankful for, yet so few written down.  Here are a few from today:

49. Companionable silence

50.  Holding hands

51. Today's sermon