fourfeetsixinches

last week was the march equinox. equal lengths of day and night. of light and dark.

i would like to say that this photo is of the equinox moon, but that would make me a liar. i took it the night before. its beauty captured me that night. the night before. and it was supposed to be even more capturing the on the actual eve of spring. but there were clouds. lots of them. it was hidden from sight.

the Scriptures tell us not to hide our light under a bushel. i sang a song about it in the sunbeam choir when i was much smaller. much younger. much more innocent. we are challenged to let it shine in such a way that others will see it. . and if/when they do, they will give glory to our Father who is in heaven. i believe we have reflective characteristics, as does this moon. certainly. it reflects the light of the sun. i also believe that we have the glory of our Creator within us. we have rivers of living water within us. its just a matter of what we allow those things to do. where we allow that light to shine. where we allow those rivers to flow. how much we serve others, our God, or merely ourselves.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory of God that is within us…And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

-Nelson Mandella

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warmth and thawing and rain.

then snow again. snow again today.

I laugh because it’s iowa and that’s what iowa does. she does it every year in one way another. messes with me. just when i start to get some hope about spring arriving, it sort of un-arrives. retreats. can a season actually display symptoms of some kind of approach-avoidance disorder? is it diagnosable?

late last summer the aphids invited themselves to the bean fields surrounding our house. when they got tired of their steady diet of bean stems they moved up to this pagoda dogwood near our kitchen window. they were gluttons, and gnawed away at the buds that were being set for the coming spring. they did some major damage before i noticed. and then these little finches came along to eat the aphids, and in the process of picking at them, finished off the remainder of the buds. deep red and barren stems persisted through the winter.

i feared that between the aphids and the finches, the dogwood might not live to see another spring. in the process of it storing up enough to get through the winter, the dogwood’s energy was spent in trying to keep growing in spite of the uninvited, gluttonous guests.

now water drops hang below the stems where buds begin pushing out. pushing up. reaching toward the late march sun. i am moved by resilience. even if it is only the resilience in a shrub that graces my front yard. and when i see this characteristic in the human condition, it moves me even further. more deeply. in spite of what may seem like drudgery. of setbacks. of setbacks upon setbacks. of finches feasting on aphids feasting on dogwood buds… resilience bounces back.

“Consider it pure joy…whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

James 1:2-4

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they’re back. and if history repeats itself it means we’re in for another good blizzard. maybe two. but for now they’re busy stirring up mulch and matted-down leaves in search of some kind of sustenance…ravaging dried chokeberries that cling to frozen branches. a welcome sign of spring in north iowa.

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A couple of years ago there was a deer that would repeatedly sneak out of the cornfield and ravage the garden. Thus, the scarecrow. A framework of scrap wood from the garage. A shirt I never wore with an old tie and a worn pair of jeans. Some cheap cologne as well, to make him smell a bit more human. A force with which to be reckoned…

The scarecrow worked for a while. But it seemed that the deer’s craving for my vegetables was greater than his fear of the scarecrow. It was, after all, just a stick man in hand-me-down clothes. Perhaps they even became friends, I’m not sure.

Life can be a lot like this. There may be “scarecrows” that frighten us away from something good. But maybe the best gardens are those guarded by a scarecrow. There might just be goodness there worth protecting.

As the moon disappears from its night watch and the morning sun comes into view, look toward the light with anticipation. Push past your fears into the good awaiting you.

Sometimes, after all, a scarecrow can be an invitation to a feast.

Joshua 1:9

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I told Katie and Weave that they should cut the flower heads off their new hydrangea tree so that the heavy snow and ice wouldn’t overburden the young branches. Bend and break them. They followed my advice and pruned it before the first heavy snow fell. I did not. So the hydrangea tree in front of our house drooped low with the weight of ice and snow this winter. The very thing that I cautioned might happen to them. Rather, it happened to me.

When I was a kid I had the privilege of spending time with Hannah. Grandma, I called her then. She spent hours out in her yard on the Mathiasen family farm. For several years I would mow the grass for her. A summer job. Although cash was the main reward for me at the time, I now look back with gratitude for so much more. Richness that I carry with me to this day.

Grandma was in a car accident when she was pregnant with twins. Her youngest two. Her knee was forced into the dashboard of the car, and as a result of that, became stiff and mostly immovable. She always walked with a cane. Yet she continued to raise her seven, to live alone on the farm until she died when I was in high school. Not an outspoken woman. A sort of quiet independence about her. A calm perseverance that creatively found ways to make life work in spite of her limitations.

Since the accident that left me paralyzed almost twenty-five years ago, I have most often referred to myself as “cripple.” This, of course, invites trouble of one kind or another from some people. But, I just haven’t found another word that fits my condition. A  nicer word doesn’t make for a nicer experience of paralysis. Grandma was “crippled up” as I would hear her and other people say when I was younger. But over the last twenty-five years of dealing with paralysis, I have felt indebted to her for the quiet example she lived for me. Am not sure I ever heard her complain. She went after life with determination. Perseverance. A certain grace. Before I would get to her house to mow her yard for her, she would have almost always already mowed part of it. One hand on the mower handle. One hand on the cane. She and her bright green LawnBoy.

There is a beauty in my memory of that. I can’t erase it. Don’t want to. I continue to be inspired by her. Spurred on by her. By the way she lived her life. By the way she faced death. I was a sophomore in high school when she died. At her funeral I barely squeaked a few words out as we sang “My faith looks up to Thee,  O, Lamb of Calvary…” I was overwhelmed with a grief that I had not felt up to that point in my life.

This hydrangea reminds me of Hannah. Grandma. A tree that endured many winters. Gained strength through experience. Even though weighed down by the sometimes harsh realities of life, an undeniable beauty shows through.

The forecast is calling for 54 degrees today. I have the day off. It is my intention to get out there and prune this hydrangea tree in the front of our house. To ready it for the coming season. New growth. Yet another season of blooming. Of beauty. Even if the coming season may present some harsh reality, some burden, some difficulty that weighs heavily…  “My faith looks up to Thee…”

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“And then my soul, awaking with the morn

Shall be a waking joy, eternally new-born.”

– George MacDonald

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“The cumulative effect of days upon years that we do not really understand is a subtle erosion. We come to doubt our place, we come to question God’s intentions toward us, and we lose track of the most important things in life.”

Waking the Dead, by John Eldredge. www.ransomedheart.com

along the banks of the Winnebago River, fishing with my son, Jon, and long time friend, Shaffe, I snapped a picture of this tree. this tree that is only a remnant of what it used to be. the top of the trunk broken off. the surface roots dry and exposed. relic of a past life.

am noticing that i notice metaphors of erosion. maybe its because i grew up a farm boy. or i could blame it on being a counselor, i suppose. a lot of people who are experiencing one kind of erosion or another come and sit on my couch and try to make sense of such loss. such depletion. speaking of difficulty in understanding what has happened to what once felt like a pulse. a purpose. life. vital existence. but it is more than simply what i see from across the room. i have seen these things in the mirror as well. honestly, i have.

close to this relic of a life once lived is another picture. of water. of movement. of growth. of beauty. two extremes nearly side by side. there are days when i feel like the relic. a relic longing to break out of its dry and brittle confines and reach for the water. for the movement. for green and growth. unlike the remnants of this tree, we have another shot at this thing called abundant life. “morning by morning new mercies i see.”

“He leads me beside still waters…He restores my soul.”

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daylight savings time. slows the arrival of the morning sun. there is a chill in the house, thermostat down for the night. steam rises from fresh-brewed coffee. when the sun is slow in peeking over the east horizon, and the other mathiasens are still sleeping, the coffee tastes especially rich. although i enjoy so much of what comes into my world through my ears, there is a part of me that sometimes longs for quiet. solitude. my head is clear and my heart is open to that still small Voice that whispers guidance, hope to the inner caverns of my heart.

whispers of direction and hope, placed in such a way as to pulse through my veins for the remainder of the day. no guarantee of easy, but certainly an increased awareness of  purpose. the Comforter’s presence and infusing of courage.

“You have made known to me the path of life.”   Psalm 16:11

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Another abandoned building site that I drive by on the way to work. Mare and I used to dream about buying this acreage and building a house there. The owner was not interested in selling. Apparently he was not interested in maintaining either. But I still spend mental energy at times thinking about how I would like to turn these few acres into a place of beauty. Build a home there. Landscape it into a bit of an Eden. Be creative somehow with this little piece of the creation.

But the owner is not interested in selling. And the owner is not interested in maintaining. So the neglect continues. As does the decline. Don’t get me wrong here; I am not criticizing the land owner, as this is just a little part of a section of farm land, and selling this out of the middle would not be something a lot of agricultural types would be willing to do typically. It is simply another bit of scenery along the way that speaks to me metaphorically about life. About humanity. And specifically about myself.

You see, sometimes I hold on to things that I am not interested in selling. And sometimes they are things that I am not interested in maintaining either. A crazy stance, perhaps; “I want to keep this, but I don’t want to care for it.”

There is a timeless story told by this guy, Jesus, who sometimes spoke in parables. He talks of three different people being given different gifts, or talents. And then as time goes on, there is an observation about how each of them dealt with having such things in their possession. [if you want to read this parable you can look at Matthew chapter 25]

So these dilapidated buildings are a picture that reminds me to do more than hold on to my gifts. My talents. Such neglectful possession does nothing to honor the One who gave them in the first place. It does nothing of healthy contribution to the community of human beings hungrily looking on. And it does nothing to allow Life to flow through the one who was given the gift in the first place.

“The glory of God is man fully alive.”  [St. Irenaeus]  Such glory has a ripple effect on the world around us. Let us do more than simply hold on to our gifts and talents, expecting them somehow to do what we are asked to do with them. Maintain them. Even better, invest them.

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I drive by a certain stand of oaks on my way to work several days a week. These two dwell on a side hill as they have for well over a hundred years. The characteristic of their appearance that steals my attention is the exposure of roots on the top of the soil. Erosion has exerted itself on the ground they hold to. Damage has clearly been done. But I appreciate the artistry of it. It is way more interesting than a tree trunk sticking straight out of the ground. That is way too basic-geometrical for me. This one…this tells a story that I think would temporarily cure my attention deficit disorder.

Anthropomorphism. I am in danger of this when I look at these trees. These oaks are determined. They hang on to this side hill. When erosive forces would try to rob them of their rootedness, they hang on more tenaciously. They endure. They persevere. Roots reach deeper as the demands above ground increase. And these trees keep growing, season after season.

Rootedness. Depth. Connection.

“Let your roots go down deep into the soil of God’s marvelous love…”  I memorized that verse when I was a young zealot trying to follow Jesus and honor him with my life. And now, decades later, I look even more thoughtfully at these words. I have in fact endured difficult seasons. Erosion in various forms has and continues to exert itself on my life. I have felt seriously knocked down more than once. But the young zealot part of my heart found substantial rootedness in that soil called God’s marvelous love. It gives me something substantial to hold to. And it actually holds me.

I don’t think people have to look very hard to see exposed surface roots in my life. There has been erosion. Is undeniable and it would be foolish to try to hide it. Yet, under the erosion is a deep connection to the soil and rock. There is agreement between the young zealot and the seasoned man in me; this soil where my roots have found a home is wide and long and high and deep, consisting of a love surpassing all knowledge.

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