Fruitfulness, Round Four

Last week, post-yard-sale and some back labor excitement, Papa picked tomatoes from the garden. This is what the counter looked like after I'd cleaned half of the take from three five-gallon buckets.

As they say up here: Uff-da.

Suffice it to say, we've had a bumper garden harvest this year. Since early August, I've been freezing green beans, sweet corn (not from our garden but from three different church members--sweet corn had a good year here, too), preparing eggplant and squash and cucumbers, and this month we've been tackling the pepper and tomato haul. Yes, it's been a lot of work. We're also very thankful the garden has borne such bounty, especially considering the late spring and the fact that we were gone for four weeks after Papa planted. So Nancy, if you're reading this and still at all concerned that your watering efforts in July went to waste, please, PLEASE fret no more. God used your efforts to great success. In fact, our tomato load last week was the fourth round of our tomato haul. The first resulted in twelve pints of hot salsa and seven quarts of tomatoes in their own juice. The second begat twelve pints of mild salsa and multiple quarts of peeled, frozen tomatoes. The third produced over twelve gallons of frozen tomatoes (see how my energy with each round diminished?). The fourth round, by sheer size alone, demanded extra effort.

So last week when I decided to make tomato sauce with all two-thirds of Papa's latest picking, I had a lot of time to think about garden harvests and familial blessings. Sitting in the kitchen, destemming and slicing up countless tomatoes for what turned out to be over ten quarts of sauce (which, if you've done this before, means roughly sixty pounds of tomatoes were involved), and wincing every time Baby decided to make his presence known (the guy's running out of room!), I pondered the mysteries of fruitfulness.

Papa's planted a garden every summer we've been here, and we've had some good years. He's rotated placement, Miracle-Gro-ed, swapped out different varieties of produce, tried different spacing. He's tried onions and radishes with little success. This year, he tweaked again, but not enough to account for the haul. Our backyard neighbors planted a few tomato plants scarcely twenty feet from our garden and didn't get a single tomato for their work. Yet we planted and basically left the little green squirts alone and now find ourselves inundated.

It's not fair, in the whole scheme of things. I'm ten months pregnant. Why all this work at this particular time? But what a silly response. I could dwell on the effort such bounty requires to preserve and sustain, but that seems beyond ungrateful. It doesn't even make sense. Gardens by their very nature are supposed to produce. And when they do, we give thanks. On the flip side, our bounty seems unfair to all the gardeners who spend this month wondering what went wrong. It would seem judicious if everyone got at least a little something for all of their gardening efforts, but sometimes it just doesn't happen. Sometimes the rabbits and birds wreak havoc. Sometimes the weather soaks or scorches. Sometimes seeds and seedlings just don't take due to soil or weeds or for causes we can never determine. Experts have spent and still spend countless hours attempting to explain why things grow and why they don't. But even finding reasons why things don't grow can't suddenly make them grow. Even having all kinds of scientific answers as to how and why life can happen can't actually create and sustain life itself.

Gardens are one thing; families and children quite another. I think of my friends and others whose arms and hearts ache with emptiness, from children desired and children taken to Jesus. Like agricultural scientists and researchers and farmers, doctors and specialists can only explain so much. This is not to diminish their God-given expertise and aid in any way. It is only to say that they are not God, and they cannot act as Life-creater. Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking they can be, that technology or drugs or some combination of scientific theory and practice in the hands of certain people can do what only God can do. But we also see too much suffering and tragedy to believe such a lie. Seemingly healthy children die young. Healthy women are infertile. And children who should not statistically survive do. My sister and I are such exceptions. We were born over thirty years ago at  twenty-eight weeks gestation. We were given less than a ten percent chance of survival at birth, but we both did. And only God knows why. We can speculate, of course. But the truth is that we don't know. And we can only trust that God's ways are best, even when we don't know His reasons for life or for death, for fruitfulness or for barrenness.

Such may sound glib or callous, an easy write-off for unanswerable burdens that provides no comfort. Instead, it is a life-saving trust in a sea of loss and suffering. We pray a meal prayer sometimes that begins with verses from Psalm 145: The eyes of all look to You, O Lord, and You give them their food in due season. You open Your hand; You satisfy the desire of every living thing (14-15). We give thanks for the nutrients God provides us for our bodies. We acknowledge that only He can give us what we need, when we need it, be it food or health or children or any number of gifts. And ultimately, whether we like it or not, we bow to the inevitable scarcity or abundance that He provides, as He sees fit. We don't like this, because it means our efforts mean, well, nothing in the face of whether God withholds or blesses.

But we also know that His gifts are always good. His good gifts always satisfy our greatest need--that we need Him, that we are, in fact, completely helpless apart from Him. And He provides for us in multiple ways, too, just not always in the forms we desire or expect. Neighbors bring extra asparagus and apples (or get five-gallon buckets of tomatoes). Some years are corn-heavy and tomato-light. Some arms hold one child or two or many, biological or adopted, and others hold nieces or nephews or godchildren or congregational children. Regardless, we receive. And--this is a hard truth--if God ordains that we should bodily starve or bear the cross of barrenness or loss, we trust that His ways are not our ways, His care not ours. This is a terrible truth, but one on which our very lives depend. Abraham wielded a knife over his only son. Mary watched hers be pierced and nailed and suffocate and die. Both wept and ached and suffered. But none more so than He who made them to begin with, Who bore and bled and died and rose to give us life that would never end, that would never stop giving.

Our family waits and prays in these days for God to bless us with another child, who is our fourth living one. This baby has grown unseen and mostly unknown, though we cherish our time with his kicks and his hiccups, even his sunny-side up turn. God knows the days He has prepared for this little one, and we trust in His promises for us and for our child, that He will never leave us or foresake us, though we all will pass someday from this veil of tears. And so we give thanks for His mysterious bounty, in all of its forms. Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts, which we receive from Your bountiful goodness. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

Pheasant Invasion

The boys--Papa and the two little guys--went to a gun show at the Armory on Saturday morning. I'll say that again: gun show at the Armory. Yeah. Roll that around in your mouth for awhile. Almost makes us sound rugged-Western-cowboy cool, doesn't it?

Anyway, the boys saw lots of, well, guns and other objects that could significantly impair one's ability to survive, jump, or add single digits. They also got lots of candy--hey, those gun people know a good bribe!--and something else meant just for kids. See below (and laugh away. Don't worry--we did!).

Remembering Elwood

In honor of Veteran's Day today, here's a little thing I wrote in September 2007, about an experience Papa and I had before the premier of Ken Burns' documentary The War.

***

We drove down to Luverne in the late afternoon to meet up with dear friends and their four children. When we arrived, the kids were checking out the vintage cars parked in front of the courthouse, where locals were scheduled to speak before a parade to the Palace Theater where the showing would be. Their youngest wondered how the convertible owners could get the hoods on fast enough should rain appear, as the gears were manual. The sky overhead misted with gray clouds and threatened to test his theory.

We went to dinner at the Pizza Ranch two doors down from the newly renovated Palace. Our meal was a quiet, happy time—our friends asked their kids to eat salad along with their pizza, a teenage waiter brought us fried chicken since the buffet was out, we laughed and caught up on news since the last time we had visited—until the evening news, broadcast on a largely ignored big screen in the middle of the restaurant, turned to a segment on Ken Burns’ visit to Luverne and the film’s premiere. All of a sudden the conversations stilled and everyone turned to watch. But it was only a moment, and the sound was low, and we soon resumed our conversations and our laughter.

 

The rain came during dinner—we watched it evolve from glistening sheets to half-hearted pitter-patter—and by the time we emerged, mints in mouth, the sun was trying to break through the still ubiquitous clouds. We walked back to the courthouse to find the presentation had been cancelled (and the cars with their hoods up), and we returned to the Palace, fearful the “red carpet” processional would be cancelled too. That would be our big moment, the chance to see Ken Burns for a fleeting moment. The kids and I strategized as to how to get Mr. Burns’ autograph for my long-distant sister—perhaps the youngest daughter could trip in front of him and after he asked what he could do—because he would be unfailingly polite—she would smile winsomely and whip out the little pad and pen.We giggled at our plans.

Some great kids and I, excitedly waiting.

 People milled here and there, as forties era music played over loudspeakers. Most were dressed casually; the American Legion members who had the honor of holding the flags at the entrance of the theater tried to figure out what order to be in as onlookers tried to figure out the best place to stand. I saw a man with a World War II veteran hat on, standing nearby. 

I love meeting veterans, especially ones who've lived long and seen much, whose young adult-hoods were consumed by sacrifices I, now a young adult, can't even begin to comprehend. So I approached the man with the hat and thanked him for his service. He smiled and said, “Thank you for thanking me.” I said something, protesting politely, about he was the one who should be thanked, and his face grew serious and he looked me close, and said, “Young lady, there’s only one thing you should remember. Four hundred and seven thousand boys just like me went to war, and they never came home. It is because of what they gave that we can live the way we do.” His eyes were misty.

The man told me his name—Elwood, from Chandler, Minnesota. He served as a junior officer in the Navy —“not anything real important”—in the south Pacific, and he served on a ship for over 700 consecutive days. No leave. “It was one month shy of two years,” he said. His daughter came up and he showed me her shirt—on the front was his name and a picture of his 21-year-old self in Navy whites. On the back was the ship on which he sailed and the places he landed, the last being Okinawa. Reverently, he told me how they landed there on Easter morning, 1945.

He spoke of how little young people know about the war and about the world generally. Not disparagingly, but sadly. “They must learn about what happened,” he said. Not to honor him, but to remember and understand the sacrifice of all the young men who never came home.

One of many memorials we saw.

What a terrible burden it is, to live proud of the service you gave, and every once in a while to be honored for that service, but to know that you are honored because you lived, and loved and worked, and so many others—your friends, your neighbors, your cousins and brothers—never left the far-away places of war. They never reaped earthly joys of cherishing wife and children, friends and neighbors. They never experienced the daily, simple toil of farming on land long held by kinsmen, of growing old and going out for cups of coffee to commiserate about the price of soybeans. They never came home.

As I listened to Elwood, I blinked to stop my sudden tears and my eyes caught the top of the Hotel Manitou, one built by dedicated hands early in the twentieth century. I thought, “We live such comfortable, leisurely lives, without even thinking of it.” Standing on a dusky street, smelling the wet pavement, watching the excitement of people who have lived comfortably because of others' service—these are priceless times of privilege that we take for granted. Elwood's story reminded me, shocked me really, of the quotidian things that those boys that never came home relinquished freely. Their sacrifice is both awesome and terrible. 

And their sacrifice enables us, the living, to laugh over pizza, to debate over rainy weather predictions, to gather together for civic events with loved ones. Ironically, their awful sacrifice often means we forget them as we move along, ahead. We even forget the ones who did come home, like Elwood. But we shouldn't, and we can't. It is because of what our veterans gave that we can live the way we do. And the living veterans deserve our honor and our thanks, just as we remember their brothers buried far away, for what they have given us.

***

We ended up seeing the premiere and Ken Burns, which was a great experience. But I am more grateful that I met Elwood that day, who reminded me then, and today, to whom I and my children, and all Americans, owe immeasurable thanks.

Visible and Invisible Glory

Tonight, after a lovely catch-up chat with Papa on our lovely front porch as we gazed at a lovely sunset, I offhandedly mentioned that I'd like my bike tires inflated. Short back story: Papa gave me my bike on our anniversary six years ago. He took me to church and said there was a surprise for me in the quilting room (a big storage space), and when I looked, there was a bike! It was one of the sweetest and most delightful surprises he's pulled off (the Nook might just beat the bike, though). We enjoyed riding it before the kids were born, and I've managed to ride it a little between pregnancies, but it's been a long time since I've hoisted my wobbly self onto the seat. I've been excited to take a spin this summer.

Anyway, Papa had already done the hard work of digging my long-neglected bike out of the shed last week, and at my words, he jumped up and went straight to the garage. I told him (admittedly half-heartedly) that he didn't have to inflate them now, but he did. And then I looked at the gleaming blue cycle with its oh-so-kickable kickstand and said, "Weeeeell... maybe I'll just ride around the block." Papa waved goodbye.

My ride.

I was about one hundred meters down the sidewalk when I realized that the sunset was reaching my favorite point--just when it last descends behind the horizon. The hues softening the few puffy clouds told me this was a good one, and I started pedaling fast. I was chasing the sunset.

We live a few blocks east of our town's western edge, and I like to walk over sometimes and watch the sunset from a higher point in a residential area that abuts a view of rolling cornfields, farms, and a few copses of trees as far as the eye can see. It's a gorgeous view. However, I had to go farther tonight to see the huge, molten day-gone sun because a new grocery store is now built, set to open next week, past the last row of houses. (I'll definitely do a post on that; it's big news out here.) I hit gravel and veered around the dirt paths that are set to be paved soon until I got to the main road out of town; I could just see the big red ball over the tops of a few trees to the north. I've got to get behind the high school, I thought.

I pedaled furiously down the little slope to the entrance of the high school. The sign flashed the time, 9:03 p.m., as I passed. Not much time. I cut across the grass to get to the library parking lot that connected to the back lot of the school, my jaw hammering with the vibrations of the rough ground. It's been a long, long time since I rode a bike. As I turned past the last corner of the school, I could see the sun, shining with muted ferocity as it sank. In the quiet, I could hear birds nesting, crickets chirping, cicadas calling, even the constant, mechanical buzz of the wind turbine. The wind whispered in the corn. The sight was so beautiful, I couldn't breathe.

 I've felt overwhelmed lately by the lists--all the things I have to do, all the things I should do, all the things I'd like to do, and the very long lists of what I just never do. I'm slowly realizing--I'm a slow learner--that there's no way in God's creation that I can actually get done everything on every list. I go through phases where I convince myself that I'm doing pretty well, that I'm "accomplishing" a lot, whatever that means. And then, when life gets busy, the kids grow and have more needs, I start feeling the pressure, like a boat that's taking on too much water. It's only a matter of time before something gives, before I get swamped. It used to be that I felt like I could "catch up" in the summers--clean out the closets, feel like I could get a fresh start to each school year. That's getting much harder--impossible?--to do.

But in the twilight, watching the sunset, I remembered that all of this life is meaningless. We chase ourselves and our loved ones around and around and die a little more each day, over and over again. The sun sets only to rise, panting. My chest heaved and my quads trembled and my soul stilled as I watched this day die, and thought of this.

But the sunset was so beautiful. Regardless of how temporal this life is, God deigned to give me--give us--this peaceful, marvelous tapestry on one evening out of the thousands, millions He has made. What a generous Giver He is, that as we struggle and as we lie burdened (esp. RAE this night), He showers us with loveliness, even little, seemingly meaningless glory in the heavens as the day ends. This is our toil, and this is yet our song.

Reb. Mary wrote today about how it's not OK, but that's OK, of the subtle temptation to think that doing certain God-pleasing acts (A) leads to certain outcomes (B). In her eloquent post, she writes:

When B does not follow, the cry of a [sinner's] heart should not be (or should not primarily be) for the Better Life: “Why, Lord? What am I doing wrong? Show me how to make it work!” Plead rather for the Better Hope: “Please, Lord. With this gift of your very life’s blood, pour into me the strength to continue pouring myself out. Enlarge my heart, that the life-giving transfusion may not be wasted through selfishly narrowed arteries. Teach me to live daily the difference of that cleansing flood, the difference between hard and hopeless, invisible to all but the eyes of faith. God grant me eyes of faith!” 

I can't see what is before me or our family. Heck, I could barely see the gravel on the shoulder as I pedaled weakly back up the hill into town. I don't know how everything important will get done. I have lots of sweating, and pedaling, and suffering ahead. This is the reality of life. But Christ makes visible what is invisible; He gives what we, the most impoverished, would starve without. I don't have to chase the sunset. He's already given it to me, and given me all the days that are before me, and given me the eternal dawn that waits for me and all believers.

"Da Turdy Point Buck" by EL

I'm sorry for the delay in getting this to cyberspace, especially for all of you in Larson clan. We really enjoyed Ed's version here and have a whole new appreciation for you outdoorsy folk -- happy hunting! :)

(P.S. Sorry for the long intro--this is the unedited version, so just be patient.)

Winter Landscapes -- The Long Farm

Don and Faye Long graciously invited us over to dinner yesterday. We went out to their farm, which has been in Don's family for around 100 years. He was born there! The sky was deep blue and crystal clear; the cozy smell of woodsmoke from Don's stove in the little room attached to the original farmhouse mingled with the dry, not-too-cold air. Once we crossed the threshold the aroma of corn casserole greeted us. Few things in life are as comforting as homey places and smells! Here's some views from our approach to the farm.







P also got to enjoy his first sled ride with Daddy's help and Don looking on. What fun! The pics were through the Long's front window, so I couldn't always focus the way I wanted (S was on my lap, too.) But you can still see how delighted he was! We hope we get to go out again soon so both he and Daddy (and S and Mommy) can have a blast! And thanks to the Long's for a lovely afternoon and evening.