Caterpillar Curl

 

If not for the bright orange band, I never would have noticed it. This plump Wooly Bear caterpillar stood motionless on the rim of a round planter in our yard.

I have noticed a substantial number of them this fall. Popular myths say their appearance can predict what kind of a winter we will have, although there is no scientific evidence to support that. They are incredible little creatures, nonetheless. They hatch out in the Spring, feed on a vast assortment of vegetation, and molt their skin multiple times as they grow larger. When they have reached the proper stage of this development, they form a cocoon around themselves using the spikey “hairs” from their skin. Inside the cocoon, their bodies transition into a lovely Isabella tiger moth, which hatches in the Spring and begins the cycle again. The remarkable thing is, if the caterpillar does not eat enough to reach the size needed for transition, it simply finds a place to hide over the winter and waits until Spring to resume eating. Its small body can withstand total freezing thanks to type of “antifreeze” it produces to enable it to live. It is indeed a sturdy little thing with amazing power to survive.

Not so amazing, however, is its tactic to avoid harm. Curious as to how it moved, I sprayed it gently with a bit of water from the hose I was using. Surprisingly, it immediately curled itself up into a ball and allowed the water to wash it off the container rim and onto the soil. There it lay, inert as a  rock while the water puddled up around it. Regretful of my action  and feeling sorry for it, I gently picked it up and placed it on a rock near the outside bottom of the container. The top of the rock was jagged and uneven, and it simply rolled off and into a narrow space between the rock and the container. The space proved too small for me to retrieve it, so I had to leave well enough alone and give up seeing it move…

Although its defensive action likely served to ward off predators with its armor of bristly hairs protecting its soft underside, I found it questionable and couldn’t help comparing it to the way we humans sometimes behave in similar fashion…

I have a 91-year-old friend who lives alone with no family nearby. She has some back problems and suffers from bouts of depression. We have called each other for years and sometimes meet for lunch. One day it occurred to me we hadn’t talked in some time, so I promptly called her to see how she was. Turns out, she’d wanted to talk to me, but felt she was grouchy and had nothing positive to say, so didn’t want to “burden” me with her complaints. I reassured her we needed to stay in touch no matter our individual moods or problems and she readily agreed. By the end of that call, her mood had noticeably improved.

I once met a woman who was fighting a virulent form of cancer and attended our church a few times. When we noticed she no longer came, a talk with a mutual friend revealed the woman had quit coming because she could not bear the compassionate concerns members expressed to her. To her, the attention was simply unbearable.

Difficult though it may be, we need to be able to share our woes with others. NO ONE in this life escapes unscathed, and rolling ourselves into a ball and hiding away from that fact does none of us any good…

One who has isolated himself seeks his own desires; 
he rejects all sound judgment.
 ~ Proverbs 18:1

Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed. 
If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. 
But someone who falls alone is in real trouble.
~ Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

Motorcycle Mama

Digging weeds on this crisp, clear day, I’m trying to gain a bit on the endless surge of green life that surrounds us here.  The horse tails and other ancient relatives have gained a foothold in the yard this year, no different than any other, I suppose.

This narrow strip of flower bed is only the edge of what used to be a vegetable garden, years ago when we first moved here, stripped the heavy sod, hauled in some good soil, and planted what I was used to growing—beans, beets, carrots, corn , strawberries. But this was not Idaho, so the carrots and beets remined small, the strawberries went wild, and the corn, barely ripe, was pillaged by marauding raccoons, which took one or two bites from each yellow ear and left them scattered across the grass. I worked that garden for many few years, learning what did and didn’t grow well here and planting accordingly. We ate a much from its yield.

Digging deeply now, to get to the roots, I unearth a surprise. What first appeared to be a small branch or extra tough root, is actually a small toy motorcycle, remnant of a partial childhood that existed here, once. I pick it up, turn it over in my hand, hold it gently, as if the child who left it was still here somehow.

You played in those huge mounds of dirt that we had dumped next to that garden, running your small cars, trucks, and motorcycles over and over the make-believe roads you formed there, making those revving-up motor noises that you were so good at. You laughed when I tried to emulate you, but I never could sound like a hotrod. That delighted you so.

You came to us already born, already burdened by what came before, things we knew nothing about. There were many days spent in the sun here, and in the rain. You played often in the tree house that Dad built for you that first summer, swung on the swing, had friends over and ate the picnic lunches that I made for you packed in brown paper bags. 

I watched you climb the huge, old, cedar tree until you could barely be seen, wavering between pride in your fearless accomplishment and guilt for allowing you to risk such a thing. My own father’s voice echoing in my head: “Be careful!”

On your first day of school, when we walked to the end of the driveway, I could sense that you were reluctant to meet that big, yellow bus. It turned the corner and came down the road, stopping by the mailbox. We crossed the road, the door of the bus opened, and the friendly driver greeted you by name. Bravely you climbed up the steps and took a seat, waving goodbye. I blinked back tears; I think you might have been braver than I was that day. A few weeks later, I watched from the window as you came home from the bus stop, a few houses down the street, happily stomping through every rain puddle that you could find, in your brand-new shoes. I could not scold you; you were so very joyful!

There was the Halloween, when we walked through the woods to a friend’s birthday party. As we walked home, you felt sick and threw up; no Trick -or-Treating for you. You still wore your monster costume as you moped around the house. The neighbor kids kindly brought you some of the treats that they had gleaned, which helped some. But you and I both knew that Halloween only comes once each year. There is no rewind. Parts of life are like that, too.

There were the birthday parties, with the home-made cakes, always carefully decorated with whatever your favorite cartoon character or superhero was at the time. Dad made up scavenger hunts, which got progressively more difficult each year, as you and your friends grew. We invented all kinds of games and you always tore the paper off each gift and spent hours playing with them afterwards. When you got your first bike, the neighborhood expanded for you; you delighted in riding down the road to play with friends and then bringing them back to play here. One year, we got your bike equipped so that you could do bike tricks, something you had been bugging us for. I remember you spending hours and hours practicing and calling for us to “Come see!” you perform. How proud you were when you ran through your current “routine” and we gave you hearty applause.

Years passed, and your bike was abandoned, cast aside for skateboard, boombox, and CDs. There were the friends we did not know, the disagreements over homework and privileges, the long nights when we did not know where you were. Those nights became months and, worst of all, we had no idea of what to do.  Where is the teenage instruction book, when it’s desperately needed? Time went on and became years; we are grey now, and have slowed down.

I clean the toy motorcycle off in the kitchen sink. It is broken, missing one wheel and a handlebar. The remaining handlebar cannot steer the missing wheel, but the kick stand does allow the cycle to stand upright with one wheel. I place it in the sunny windowsill, although I have no idea why. Maybe the sunlight makes it appear whole again. I know it needs to be thrown, but some things are difficult to do. 

You are a man now, living your life as you’ve chosen to. I am an old woman, feeling left behind as  in the dust of a motorcycle speeding  off to who-knows-where. I have no answers to the questions that arise as echoes from the past reverberate in my head. Vroom, vroom…

"Underground" Systems

I often think of them as coming from another world and I’m not far wrong in thinking that. For most of their lives exist underground in the dark, secretive, cracks and crevices totally unknown to most of us. It’s only on those rare occasions, when conditions are perfectly matched to their individual specifications, that they burst forth into the world that we know and their time there and in that form is extremely brief.

In this part of the world, wandering about the woods, especially during the damper parts of the year, we are bound to come across them. Fungi, in a variety of colors, shapes, and sizes, pop up seemingly overnight from the forest floor, moldering leaf piles, or rotting tree stumps.

Unlike green plants, fungi do not need sunlight and are unable to make their own food, drawing nutrients instead from other rotting vegetation. What we see of them belies what we cannot see—a vast, complicated underground support system responsible for their colonization and reproduction.

In the case of a mushroom, tiny seed-like spores are carried by wind and water to the soil, where they burrow in and grow into long, multi-celled strands. Different types of these strands are produced, and the exact right ones need to meet and combine to form longer entwined strands that carry the full component of genes necessary for that specific type of mushroom.

These strands gradually form a small, tight ball of cells which grow upward and finally emerge into the air, taking on the shape of a mature mushroom. This adult fungus then forms spores and the entire cycle repeats itself.

The underground system of a fungus is truly amazing.  Before logging roads cut through it, a 2,400-acre site in eastern Oregon had a contiguous growth estimated at 1,665 football fields in size and 2,200 years old. This one fungus has killed the forest above it several times over, and in so doing has built deeper soil layers that allow the growth of ever-larger stands of trees. Mushroom-forming forest fungi such as this are unique in that their underground growth can achieve such massive proportions.

Human support systems might be compared to this. So much of what we do with and for others is not obvious; myriad small acts of assistance, kindness, and compassion combine with others, branch out and spread, often far from the original source. Surfacing and becoming apparent occasionally, this support system really is the life blood of any community. Behind every successful grown child, there are years of effort from caring adults; behind every recovering addict, there are miles of accompanying encouragement and intervention; behind every healing of a body, mind, or spirit, there are thousands of helping hands, loving hearts, and prayers.

But we are only the vessels, for beneath all this and deeper than any of us can fathom, lies a force greater than the combined efforts of all. We are each a small link in a vast system which surpasses all understanding. We need only trust and act. Yes, and celebrate the end results as they emerge out of the detritus of life. For this is the ultimate love.

 Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity            ~ Colossians 3: 12 - 14

What We Think We Hear

It started out innocently enough. A well-intentioned comment was unfortunately misconstrued and WHAM! Hurt feelings. It happens to all of us.

 

Compared to my daily attire I was somewhat dressed up, wearing a newly-purchased burgundy red skirt with navy blue top and matching tights. I was pleased with this outfit and feeling a bit cocky, I guess. Then my husband made his remark: “Wow, you look like the Queen of England!” To which I quickly replied: “I do NOT!” Then I further explained that, although I had nothing against the Queen, I was not a stuffy, dumpy, little old lady, as I perceived her to be. Talk about insults. “No, that’s not what I meant.” he continued. “I mean, that skirt is a rich royal color, like what a queen might wear. It looks good on you—I meant it as a compliment.” Oh…

 

It’s not the first time my thoughts have jumped out of my mouth prematurely. I’m sure it won’t be the last. It seems to be a basic problem with human communication: what you think you say about what you think is not at all what the other person hears and thinks you said, because they are thinking their own thoughts. Thinking is a wonderful thing, most of the time, but it can and does mislead us. Accurately hearing what the other person is saying, if we are even listening, is critical. Because I am such a visual person, I know that I immediately picture in my mind what it is the other person is saying. I also know that I’m sometimes totally wrong. It helps to clarify by repeating what you think the person said before adding your own reply.

 

To complicate matters, everyone is different when it come to speaking one’s mind. Some of us are more articulate than others; some write their thoughts better than speaking them. Then there are those who think others can just read their minds…

 

With another new year beginning, many are making resolutions to improve themselves or their lives—or at least considering making those. More recently, it’s become popular to choose a word for the year, with the intention of focusing on that as a way of improving oneself. I don’t do well with resolutions, but I do like to set a goal or two for the year. Although I reach those with varying degrees of success, it gives me something to aim for. I also like choosing a word or statement and in past years have chosen listen, focus, and one step at a time as my word(s) for the year. This year, I’m taking my words from the 1989 book The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, by Dr. Stephen Covey. In it, he stated:

"If I were to summarize in one sentence the single most important principle I have learned in the field of interpersonal relations, it would be this: Seek first to understand, then to be understood."

I think I have my work cut out for me, but that's good because I like challenges. Whatever method you choose, I hope that you also will seek some way to improve your life in the coming year. Secretly, I really would like to appear as dignified as the Queen of England. How about you?

 

 

Do you see someone who speaks in haste? There is more hope for a fool than for them.    ~ Proverbs 29:20 

 
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
    neither are your ways my ways,”
declares the Lord.
 As the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so are my ways higher than your ways
    and my thoughts than your thoughts.”       ~ Isaiah 55: 8 - 9

What We Think We See

 

When venturing out these evenings, I am mesmerized by lights. Recently, long lines of cars filled the late autumn darkness with what seemed like a thousand glistening spider webs, awesome in their perfection. White, bluish, and red, they appeared as the frozen, steady glow of large individual sparks from a giant Fourth of July sparkler. Honestly, they’re hard to describe in their brilliant uniqueness. And it’s all because of my “new eyes.”

 

I distinctly remember the small room and hallway; it seemed like a whole new world to my left eye. No one told me that my vision had darkened, yellowed, and become blurry THAT much. Possibly they did, but I hadn’t believed them. I thought I could see just fine; could still read, if the light was bright enough; could still see traffic signs, if I got close enough. I’d put off the surgery for a few years, knowing it was just a matter of time before I’d really need it. The eye doctor told me that everyone, if they lived long enough, was likely to develop cataracts. Also, that the procedures had improved over time, there were choices as to what kind of lens to have put in, and that the success rate was high. I didn’t fear the surgery, but life was busy, and I just couldn’t be bothered. When I finally decided to go ahead, the results were more than I ever expected.

 

After the second surgery, my right eye took longer to heal and focus. During the first long week of recovery, the thought occurred to me that I might never see well through that eye again. There was always that slight possibility, of course, but I clung to the hope that all would end well. Fortunately, it did, and I was greatly  surprised by the vision I now have: objects in clear focus both near and far; colors that look pleasingly different from before; overall, a brighter, whiter world. The new artificial lenses in my eyes allow me to see all this, BUT, bright lights shining directly at me (including the myriad stars in the night sky…) appear with these magnificent prisms of light radiating out of them.

 

Life is full of risks, and sometimes we have no option about taking them. Often, however, we can choose and must carefully weigh what’s at stake and if the risk is worth it. This year, during this season, I contemplate what vision really is and wonder: What if Mary had never believed the angel and had run away or Joseph had rejected her as she was, unborn child and all? What if the journey to Bethlehem had never been taken or the innkeeper had found room for two more? What if the shepherds had hidden in fear or the angels had been out on strike? What if the Magi had miscalculated the position of that one bright star or had done exactly as King Herod requested? What if we find we don’t really believe it at all? What is it we think we see and does or can that vision ever change?

 

My faith journey, as perhaps yours, has been long, meandering, and evolving. I’ve taken some wrong turns and come to some dead ends, hit some slick spots and lost control. I’ve had to stop to re-fuel or just take a rest, but I’ve kept going just the same. For I know that I’m not the main driver; the light continues to shine, directing and guiding my trek through this thing called life. Sometimes, it even appears as a giant sparkler, giving me joy in the darkest of nights.

 

This season, I wish the same for you.

When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, "I am the  light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life."   ~ John 8: 12

SCARY - or just Scared

“I’m SCARY!” the small voice suddenly boomed out menacingly, while the arms straightened and stuck out and there began a stiff-legged strut around the room. Frankenstein had come alive! It was only a costume, of course, and not a very good one at that. It was just a cheap print of the infamous monster’s face on a sort of rectangular pinafore of vinyl with a matching plastic mask. But he had chosen it himself and now wore it proudly over a bright yellow raincoat and dark red jeans. I’ve often wondered if he thought he really was that scary or was just trying to convince himself of the fact…

We had only lived here six months when we got the OK to pick up this four-year-old child in Everett and bring him home as our foster child. It was not really what we wanted; we wanted to adopt, not foster, a child. But as they say, beggars can’t be choosy and we’d waited long enough - we’d been married fourteen years and time was flying by. We’d been assured that they were “almost positive” this little boy would become free for adoption within a year and we decided to take the chance. It proved to be so.

I look back at that time and cringe, for none of us really knew what lay ahead. We drove to Everett once to spend a couple of hours with this boy before picking him up the next week. There was no time to get acquainted; very little time to prepare. We’d had a bedroom ready with the basics - bunk beds, chest of drawers, rocking chair – because we’d hoped to adopt while living in Idaho. When that did not happen before we found out we’d be moving to Washington, we stopped planning. Disappointment can do that to a person. We went through the motions of applying to adopt here, but had no idea things would happen as fast as they did. By the middle of October, we had a child and wondered if we knew what in the heck we were doing. All new parents must feel this way to some degree, but this was a preschooler with “issues” and we had no instruction manual. We were new in the community, so knew few people and had no family nearby. My husband was commuting to Seattle every day and still traveling some with his work, so I was alone much of the time. To say I was apprehensive is an understatement…

Our son arrived with one small box of clothes and a small paper bag of toys from the child center – he had none of his own and didn’t seem particularly attached to these. We drove to Penney’s in downtown Bremerton (There was no mall in Silverdale yet.) to buy him a few clothes that fit better and just sort of winged it the rest of the way. As Halloween approached, he made it known that he wanted a costume and to go Trick-or-Treating. I took him around to a few houses where we knew the people for his treats. He acted so brave, but I could tell that underneath the bravado was a scared little boy – new home, new parents, new experiences. But he did enjoy himself and managed to eat his entire small bag of candy the next day. We all had much to learn yet!

How often we put on a brave face and go forward as if nothing is bothering us, afraid to show our perceived weaknesses to others. How often we won’t face our fears and misgivings. How often we refuse help and seal our hearts against risking more. How much hurt and grief we would avoid if we would just let it all go…

My heart pounds, my strength fails me; even the light has gone from my eyes.  Psalm 38: 10

 For I am poor and needy, and my heart is wounded within me. 

Psalm 109:22

Those Daily Miracles

“There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.”

~  Albert Einstein

Amazed. It is a word which today is over-used and has lost much of its meaning. But on this day I truly was - amazed. Before me stood a minor miracle, a small plant which only the day before anyone would have taken for dead.

I had recently purchased my yearly supply of garden plants; most I had planted, but this one had somehow escaped me. I thought I’d gotten six lovely coleus plants, but when I planted them I only had five. Thinking I had simply miscounted, I thought no more about it. But now I remembered that before planting we had found one of them lying on the porch deck. It had been dry and therefore very light-weight and we assumed either the wind or a pesky squirrel had knocked it off the ledge where it had sat. I watered it well and planted it that very day.

Unbeknownst to me, another coleus lay nearby, but out of sight. A week later I had found it, pot and all, lying on its side on the ground, bone dry with withered leaves. In fact, about half of its leaves were brown and crunchy-dry. I nearly threw it out, but I had spent good money on those plants and decided to do what I could. Setting the plant in a small bowl, I thoroughly watered it and set it on our kitchen window sill. The following day all three of the plant’s stems stood straight up, its remaining leaves full and healthy looking, with bright green and rich rust coloring. I will plant it in a larger pot and nurse it along until it has fully recovered before planting it outdoors. I call it Lazarus.

“The only way to live is to accept each minute as an unrepeatable miracle, which is exactly what it is: a miracle and unrepeatable.” ~ Storm Jameson

Recently, a family friend had a horrendous bicycling accident and suffered a traumatic brain injury. He lay in the intensive care unit for days with bleeding and swelling on his brain, no memory of the accident, and questionable prognosis for recovery. Doctors were guardedly encouraging, friends and family were in shock, and the patient himself had no idea of what was going on. But those close to him were always there with him – sitting next to his bed, holding his hand, praying, crying, staring off into space, occasionally nodding off – keeping watch by simply being present. But in a situation such as this, it is never simple.

After a couple of weeks, he was released from the hospital and admitted to an in-patient rehab center. After another few weeks, he was allowed to go home with continuing out-patient rehab. Fortunately, he is able to walk, talk, and communicate, although not as well as he did previously. Some of his memory has returned and his functioning has improved, but he still has a long way to go. No one can say, with certainty, if he will recover fully and how functional he will end up being. However, he has made great strides in a relatively short amount of time, which is a positive sign. He might have died, but here he is one short month later. Again I am – amazed.

Whether you believe in them or not, miracles do happen every day. Many are seemingly insignificant, some mind-blowing - ALL are evidence of something far greater than ourselves.

Remember His marvelous works which He has done, His wonders, and the judgments of His mouth.

Psalm  105:5