I'll Take the Star Any Day

Driving north for an hour Saturday night, I passed hordes of people comfy in their lawn chairs on parkways in each town I passed through. It was just after 9 p.m., almost time for the Fourth of July fireworks to begin. I sensed eager anticipation as kids waved glow-wands and small flags. A few minutes later, fireworks began. I could see them in the open spaces off in the distance. To my right, first a red chrysanthemum, then a green one, blossomed in the sky, then dissipated into falling ash. To my left, a white rocket shot up into a boom of smoke. Also to my left was one star in the darkening blue expanse. I thought, God, certainly you can be showier than that. God-made stuff is always more majestic than man-made stuff. In the next open land I drove through, a beautiful white daisy grew up from the eastern horizon, then died. A white weeping willow appeared on the western horizon, then disappeared. The one star was still there. This scenario repeated the whole drive. By the time I got home, I was much more awed by the constancy of that one unwavering star than with all the shooting stars that flashed for a moment. Your love, O Lord, reaches to the heavens, your faithfulness to the the skies. Psalm 36:5

Low Down Dirty Blues quote

"How did I get over the hill without making it to the top?"

One of my favorite smiles from Low Down Dirty Blues. Ain't it the truth?

Weeds

Kneeling, hunching over a 4x4-foot garden section, perspiring profusely, plucking and pitching weeds, I'm beyond tears. The tears had come two weeks ago when I first saw the mauvaises herbes (French for weeds is aptly, literally, bad grass). I'd been so pleased that I'd made the effort to wrestle the wheelbarrow with the flat tire across the bumpy field to the community compost pile and back to enrich the soil of the little "salad square" of my community garden plot. I'd planted five rows of seeds, but seemingly before they'd had a chance to sprout, my salad square was a carpet of green. And I mean CARPET. Wall-to-wall shag. Apparently, the compost contained some kind of grass seed, and now I had an unwanted lawn where I wanted vegetables. When I first saw this had happened, my throat felt thick, my eyes watered, my heart sank. Gardening was already a lot of work, and now this ~ nuisance work.

After procrastinating several weeks, I decide today to tackle this task. Three potential helpers bag out. I feel really alone. Just me, my resigned sighs, and my muddy kneeling pad. Oh, and God. Who I'm talking to. And who seems to be showing me things. Like some parallels between this task and other hard things in life.

Oddly, I'm not angry with the compost provider. Oddly, I'm not angry with some recent critics of my writing. They both made things more difficult for me, but their intent was to help. And I know God will bring good from both types of mauvaises herbes.

Pluck. Pitch. Pluck. Pitch. For being only about two inches tall, these weeds sure have deep roots, some four or six inches long. I think about little unkind words exchanged with my husband and am sobered by their deep roots in longstanding hurts and anxieties. Pulling weeds feels somehow relationally freeing. Catch for us the ... little foxes that ruin the vineyards ... (Song of Songs 2:15).
Certainly my salad square is doomed; I see nothing here but weed grass. Pluck. Pitch. Pluck. Pitch. What? Scalloped edges of a cilantro seedling? And another? Only two of the whole row of cilantro seeds I'd planted, but still ... I'm as excited as Monet bringing his first water lily to life with a brushstroke. Pluck. Pitch. Pluck. Pitch. Oh my goodness ~ feathery carrot tops? They grew! I bet some of the seeds of diligence planted in my writing have sprouted, too. And some of the seeds of obedience to Christ planted in my marriage have also pushed their way up through weeds of wounds and disobedience. Suddenly, I feel encouraged about ~ well, everything.

The most precious part of today's tedious weeding is God's companionship. I find myself singing, When life's comforts fail and helpers flee, Help of the helpless, Oh Lord, abide with me. Sweet.

Flower Pots

Neighbors walking by enjoyed our colorful flowers today as we planted patio containers. Lawrence of Arabia even stopped by to water. :-) And the finished product ~ ta-dah!

Mosquito Season

An Embarrassment of Riches

As I type my handwritten Festival of Faith and Writing notes into the computer, I am reminded:

• first, how much I learned, not only about writing, but about thinking and life; and
• second, no wonder I came home so tired!

Action items and philosophical gems are side by side in my notes ~ like a Festival gift basket containing ruby-handled scissors, solid gold pen, French chocolates and wine (these last for inspiration and digestion). These are notes I'll savor often and remember the privilege of learning from and being changed by such fine teachers.

Another embarrassment of riches item is the blessing of having my parents, sister and brother-in-law, and nephew and his wife in our home for Mother's Day. Being together filled my heart with joy, much like the way our "dessert cup" overflowed. We had jointly agreed upon NO desserts other than a fruit salad. My secret surprise, however, would be a lemon and white chocolate mousse and strawberry parfait. Then I thought, what's Mother's Day without strawberries dipped in dark chocolate? So I prepared a lacy tray of those. Others had also concocted secret sweet surprises. Mom showed up with macadamia nut bars she'd baked. My sister showed up with hazelnut-chocolate candy she'd made. My niece showed up with an orange-chocolate torte. Truly an embarrassment of riches, not to mention embarrassing appetites!

Van Gogh Coloring Book

In several sessions at the Festival of Faith and Writing, speakers recommended copying the structure of a novel we like. This strikes me as a bit like buying a Van Gogh coloring book. Even learning that most stories follow similar structures and knowing each author will "color" the story uniquely, I find this advice lacking. Copying structure may be an effective starting point, but developing literary craft and style are critical to being an artist in my own right. The first takes hours of analysis; the second takes a lifetime of study and practice. On another level, the first is something I can do; the second reflects who I am. This will require more than simply coloring my Sunflowers blue instead of Van Gogh's gold and my Starry Night green instead of his blue.