Mystery in the Backyard

When my mother first visited our home on South Kanawha, she told someone, “when you sit on the front porch you feel like you are in town, and when you sit in the backyard you feel like you are in the country.”  That’s because our backyard is bumped up against the town’s oldest golf course with its huge seventh-hole fairway and grand trees lining its edges.  It makes for a scenic view and a good place for recollected prayer.  In the winter we sit by the fireplace and gaze off into the corridor of openness watching the gray fog roll in just before dusk and the snow kicking up a storm. 

Today I walk barefooted across the backyard’s mossy area to a nice shady spot along the fence line where we have a sitting area to enjoy the evening.  Once I was sitting in this very spot looking out over the open field when I caught sight of rain three hundred yards in the distance.  Standing up I watched as a wall came sweeping toward me.  Then just as the first big splats began to land, I made a mad dash across the yard into the safety of the basement just as it hit full force.  If I had it to do again, I would stand my ground soaking up the moment and getting soaked to the bone instead.    

Earlier today I visited a local state park with a friend who has a visual impairment.  Someone asked him what he enjoyed about being in the park.  His reply gave me reason for pause.  “Being able to come out and hear the sounds,” he said.  His comment inspires me to make a deliberate attempt to hear the backyard.  Birds are singing…a variety of birds.  A neighbor mows in the distance while cars pass on the town side of the house.  I hear the wind.  Chimes are ringing out from our porch, a deep resonant bell sound.  A million leaves rustle in harmony creating a peaceful creation song. 

I love that feel of a cool crisp wind.  You never know where it’s coming from or where it’s going, but on a hot summer day like today it’s refreshing.  I confess too that I like the wind because of the symbolism it invokes of the mysterious Holy Spirit.  A friend recently told me, “You believe in God the Father; you know what that means…you can put that in a theology book.  You believe in Jesus Christ; you know what that is; you can read the gospels; you know what He did, what He said.  [You] believe in the Holy Spirit; you don’t know what is going to happen next...we are uncomfortable with that.”

I get it.  I get it by what is felt and seen and heard as the wind swoops in unpredictable.  Coming from one direction then another with the power to refresh or uproot.  Enjoyable, but uncontrollable.  A mystery revealed in our backyard. 

A Father's Day Reminisce

On Saturday we took a long car ride through the green rolling hills of Greenbrier County on our way to Watoga State Park.  The drive was a lot slower than necessary.  I guess one could even say we meandered in order to take in the full force of the country side with its fields, barns and farm houses.  It was a good reminder of the many times my dad took our family on a relaxing Sunday afternoon drive.  We would load up in his blue 1960 Chevy Bel Air with its wing shaped tailfins and take off for parts unknown.  It gave a super smooth ride and made the trip a sheer pleasure as we took in the sights.  We would always end up somewhere….a friend’s house, down on the river, at a cemetery or in the National Park.

First up on the list for this Sunday was to give Dad a call.  “Happy Father’s Day”, I said.  “You didn’t have to call”, he replied.  That’s my dad, never wanting to put anybody out.  Well, maybe there was that one time.  Dad always took work off early to attend our baseball games, and this particular one was in Knoxville.  I was starting in the field my sophomore year, but not at the bat as someone else was the designated hitter.  The guy who was my replacement had been on a long 0 for nothing streak, and as I recall had struck out four times in that game.  Dad standing at the backstop after the last strike-out yelled, “I think you’ve got the wrong one hitting, coach.”  I was in the hitting lineup the next game.  As I recall I walked and had a hit in that game which we won 3-1.  Thanks for everything, Dad.  

I look over at the Rembrandt print hanging in the living room above the piano.  In it a grey bearded father envelopes his ragged son with a welcome embrace.  To the side a detached elder brother looks on.  It’s a silent but powerful reminder of the Heavenly Father’s extravagant love for His children (1 John 3:1).  Like the younger brother I leave home for a distant country when I am entangled with the manipulations of the world and cease to hear the voice of my Father.  Like the elder brother I become alienated from the Father’s heart when my self-righteous pride leads me to feel superior to others.  Both sons valued the things of the father more than he valued the relationship with the father.    

Of course Father’s Day means that I become the center of attention, too.  So the choices of the day fall to my liking which is always a scary thing.  Who knows what kind of craziness I might concoct?  It’s that delicate balance of finding what I might really want to do and what is palatable to everyone else.   First thought was a picnic which everyone would have liked but doesn't have enough pizzazz fitting for the day.  That thought soon elevated into attending the opening of an art exhibit which also served fresh fruits, delicious cheeses, spicy meat balls and tasty lime tarts.  Score!

Then there was the Father’s Day gift.  No socks or tie for me.  This year it was a new finch feeder to satisfy our craving to see cheerful bright yellow birds outside of our window as we breakfast.  The day was capped off by sitting outside on the patio as dusk descended, and the lightening bugs began their own exhibition.  It has been a good day. 

Appropriately titled "Sunday Drive"

Friday Lunch

It is Friday lunch. I’m having tuna salad on homemade wheat bread with iced peppermint tea. Diana and I are sitting at the table gazing out on a beautiful day and listening to the Writer’s Almanac hosted by Garrison Keillor. He tells us that it’s the anniversary of Mark Twain taking a trip to Europe in 1867. Twain’s down to earth observations of culture on that trip became the book The Innocents Abroad. In it he said, "In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language." It made me smile out loud.

Diana comments that in our eighties we will probably sit around the table saying,“Let’s be sure not to miss our program.” Ironically that was just about the age of my grandfather when we would have lunch together and he would tune in Paul Harvey. Together we would listen to Paul Harvey’s unique perspective on the news which always included the “For What It’s Worth Department” and “Tournament of Roses” which highlighted some couple who was celebrating an unbelievable anniversary like number 75. Then he would conclude with one of his dramatic pauses and “gooooood day.”

The birds are swarming on the ground outside the window. There are chickadees, starlings, doves, finches, humming birds, robins, sparrows and the occasional cardinal. Then like a shot they are off to take cover in the holly tree, back and forth, back and forth. They seem to never tire of this game. Of course our three feeders do nothing to discourage the all day entertainment they offer. It’s particularly fun to watch when the feeder has just been filled. Raining down seed on their feathered friends below, they seem to be saying, “Here you go everybody, let’s party!”

Sparrows are a favorite of mine - common, unassuming, numerous, plain. Years ago I was on a walk near our Shady Spring home. The day was gloomy or at least my mind was gloomy. The future and finances was uncertain which was very unsettling. Then out of nowhere a sparrow showed up bouncing, dancing, playing. It seemed to be a personal messenger reminding me that two sparrows are sold for a penny and not to be afraid because “you are worth more than many sparrows.” It was a surge of relief.

 

 

After lunch I put on my English flat cap, put on my Filas and go for a walk. The afternoon is pleasantly warm. I stroll past two churches and numerous houses before circling the parking lot of the Black Knight Country Club and returning. A Scripture comes to mind from this morning’s reading, “If you, God, kept records on wrongdoings, who would stand a chance? As it turns out, forgiveness is your habit, and that's why you're worshiped.” That was especially needed today. It’s amazing how Omnipotence is perfectly timed to cross our path in personal and unexpected places.

Just Plain Folks

Diana and I drove over to Lewisburg for our 24^th anniversary.  We didn’t talk much on the way.  It wasn’t because we were upset or anything...just being together was enough.  A friend of ours told us that once a week he and his wife hike in silence until noon lunch before sharing their thoughts. Maybe it’s wearing off on us.

I especially enjoyed the brilliant green of the countryside.  It first caught my attention when we returned from the brown of Colorado a few weeks ago. Green burst into view everywhere I turned.  Vermont of course is known as the green state; but after having been there a couple of times, I don’t notice that it is any greener than the wild and wonderful state.   

Lewisburg claims to be the “coolest small town in America” with good reason.  It has a modern day Mayberry feel to it.  Shops, restaurants and historic buildings crowd around the open courtyard.  There in the center of town benches invite passersby to slow down for a conversation, and water works entice children to indulge on a hot summer day.  First Friday’s of the month give shop owners a chance to fling open the doors of hospitality with food samples and music.  The town has a character all its own or as one person at the health store put it “soul.”

We stopped in at a few of our favorite shops.  One was once an old hardware store.  I go in not so much for the merchandise but to hear the screech of the screen door, the clang of the bells and to listen to the creak of the wooden floors as we stroll through.  

The used bookstore is on our list of course.  I talked with the proprietor for a while.  He is a naturalist through and through and tells me he has been writing poetry since high school.  There’s a piano in this hole in the wall store that he occasionally plays as customers browse.  Later I return with a giant pine cone from Estes Park.  I’ve been waiting to give it to someone, and he seemed to be the most likely candidate to appreciate it.

The afternoon ends up at the Wild Bean Café for hummus wraps and herbal tea.  I’m reading as my book of choice Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard and for Diana The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien.  We get a coffee to go along with the enlarged chocolate chip cookie we split.  With mug in hand I give a try to the mud, house blend, Somali and southern pecan before settling on the Wild Bean house blend. 

We have a discussion on a book we purchased entitled Floral Art in the Church.  It says that “through careful attention to detail in arrangement flowers can be made to serve as vivid symbols of age-old…truths when used in altar arrangements.”  Diana tells me that in Victorian times everyone was expected to know the meanings behind flowers so bouquets were sent with messages behind them.  Eventually we get around to talking about living fully just where we find ourselves and in what we find ourselves doing. About seeing wonder in the midst of our ordinary routine lives.  About the work of God in just plain folks like us.