A Divine Knowing

Recently I’ve been bombarded with thoughts about our desire to be known. From what I can tell, our one great need in life is to be known by others. Superficial relationships abound but, when it comes right down to it, with so much hurt in the world, what we most want is to have other people in our lives who know us. People who know what we need. What words to say. Or not. What makes us laugh. Or cry. People who know the good and bad in us. Even what our favorite color is. We all need to be known.

What follows is a story of the ultimate knowing. But, unfortunately the story doesn’t have a very pretty beginning. And there is no way to tell the story without starting with the ugly truth.

It goes like this.

One warm, sunny October morning, as I was nearing my 15th birthday, my father took his own life in the garage of our rented Michigan home. On the morning of his death, I had gone to school. Looking back, it is pretty obvious that my father had calculated a foolproof plan. He dropped me off at school and called my, then, 22-year old brother, Darrell, to tell him what he was going to do. In spite of my brother’s best efforts to get to my father in time, he couldn’t. My father followed through. My brother arrived only in time to find his father. Dead.

For many reasons, our family handled the tragedy of our father’s suicide badly. My siblings and I were all far too young to know how to deal with the situation in a healthy manner and our mother was ill equipped to deal with her own grief, let alone guide her children through the process. What followed was, simply, survival. We all did the best we could. Darrell became somewhat reclusive and turned inward. He retreated into a world quite different from what he had known growing up, but which felt safe. For years he was haunted by what he had experienced.

The years leading up to our father’s suicide had been tumultuous and difficult. Our father’s life, once full of promise, was being eroded by alcoholism and mounting, untreated, mental illness. He was tormented and, sadly, as children, my siblings and I watched his decent…helplessly. We were without means to lift him from the ever deepening hole into which he was falling.

At one point, when Darrell was about 16, he and my father visited our grandparents home in Oklahoma. Just the two of them made the trip. Our family vehicle had been repossessed and my father’s parents were graciously providing us with a car. They had gone to retrieve it.

While there, my father sat despondently in his parent’s living room; in tears. He leaned forward with his head hanging. His shoulders were hunched and in his despair he didn’t even wipe away the tears. He sat there as a teardrop hovered at the end of his nose, as though afraid to fall.

My brother watched this scene playing out and, as a teenager, after years of watching our father coming apart, he felt disgusted by my father’s pathetic demeanor and utter hopelessness. Why couldn’t he at least wipe the tear off his nose?

Time seemed to erase my brother’s memory of the tragic scene. Or maybe it was just that far more tragic memories replaced that one. Regardless, he didn’t think of it again.

Many years later, after my father’s suicide, as Darrell was coming to terms with what had happened, he heard the voice of Jesus calling him into a relationship. Part of that process included a silent retreat. One afternoon during this period of retreat, as my brother wrestled with Christ to release his own demons, it started to rain. Emotionally fatigued from the work he was doing, Darrell went for a walk on the grounds of the retreat center just as the cloudburst ended.

As he walked the path of the retreat center he came upon a bronze sculpture of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus leaned forward with his head hanging. His shoulders were hunched and in his despair, Jesus just sat there as a raindrop hovered at the end of his nose, as though afraid to fall.

Arrested by the sight of Jesus in the exact same posture he had seen our father in years ago, Darrell was immediately transported back to that day when he saw our father crying in his parent’s living room.

There was Christ. There was our father. There was the reality that we have the capacity to see Christ in everyone. Even the hurting, despondent, despairing alcoholic we called Daddy.

Jesus met my brother that day and made Himself known. Christ knew what Darrell needed, and Darrell was known. And, because he knew and was known by Christ, Darrell was able to see Christ in our father, even long after his death.

In much the same way, when we know and are known by Jesus, we have the capacity to see Christ in others. In our spouses. And our friends. And our children. In annoying co-workers. And grouchy neighbors. When we see Christ in others how can we help but be drawn to know them?

A divine cycle of knowing.

Beady Eyes and Red Leggings

Interest in birds has always seemed like an old person thing. Not that I don’t like birds. Or, old people, for that matter. I do. I like to hear their melodic songs in the early morning hours. The birds, I mean. But, for me, birds have always just been part of the environment. I haven’t actually paid that much attention to them. I guess, now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve just, basically, taken the birds for granted.

I’m starting to feel bad about that.

Anyway, when I first met Steve’s parents I thought they had an inordinate interest in birds. His dad had numerous bird feeders around and flocks of birds would fly into their yard to eat. They were colorful and pretty. But, I mean, they were…birds. His parents got all excited about them and could identify various ones. It was all a little weird, if you asked me.

I’ve noticed, this summer, however, that along with numerous other backyard improvement projects, Steve has hung a bird feeder. It is sort of a cutesy deal, made from a broken picture frame. He’s creative and it works. And the birds love it! Not as much as the squirrels, maybe, but they love it. All kinds of birds are coming to our yard now. ‘Feasting from the frame,’ I like to call it.

Many mornings we get up early and go outdoors to enjoy our coffee. The birds come around for their breakfast and we are starting to see the same ones (or at least they look like the same ones…it is hard to tell) coming around regularly. And yes, I have a propensity to name them and give them human characteristics. Like one plain-Jane little Mourning Dove who I swear is wearing red tights. I mean she may be in mourning, but, I’m pretty sure she puts on those red tights to say, “Look at me world!” Steve thinks maybe she’s supposed to have legs that color but I’m pretty sure a drab, grey bird had to take matters into her own hands...or wings, I suppose...and brighten up her wardrobe.

I can relate.

So anyway, there we were one morning, talking and watching the birds when Steve said, “I wonder what that one with the orange head is.” I looked at him aghast. He was quick to assure me that he wasn’t going to get all bird wacky on me and start reading bird identification books. I was skeptical. With good reason.

A few days later, Steve came home from a trip to the library and, tucked into the middle of a stack of books was…a bird identification book! Hey, now…I thought that wasn’t supposed to happen! He assured me it was just a temporary lapse of judgment. The book is still here, though.

I admit, I sort of like the bird thing.

And if that means I’m getting old. Well, so be it. I’m going to get old regardless, so why not do it while enjoying the company of birds. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with getting old. We don’t have a lot of choice in the matter so we might as well embrace it.

With all this bird business, I’ve noticed something. Birds eat a lot. Which is fine. I don’t think they eat more than they need, although they do eat frequently. But they don’t hoard. I don’t see any squabbling or fussing about ‘me first.’ They simply fly in, eat a bit, and then fly out. I’ve yet to see a bird look worried about whether or not there will be enough.

Which has me thinking that we really ought to learn from the birds. Maybe we shouldn’t worry so much about tomorrow. Maybe we don’t have to hoard and save and stock up. Maybe we should simply trust that what we need will be there for us when we need it. Our culture doesn’t teach that, of course. But, I’m not sure our culture has it right. Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from the birds…take what you need and leave the rest for the others.

And, when feeling drab. Wear red.

Night of the Living Squash

I hate to admit that my garden is starting to scare me. My sweet little garden that I planted too early in the spring and got covered with snow; the one I spoke kindly to and nurtured lovingly, is starting to get out of control.

I realize the phrase ‘out of control’ is relative. For example, yesterday, while visiting my mother I decided to give her a little thrill by running down the hallway while pushing her wheelchair toward a plate glass window. I believe it was at that point that Anna told me I was out of control and my mother said she was glad Anna was around to keep me in line. Apparently the nursing home set frowns on that kind of behavior. Anyway, I wasn’t actually out of control. I could have stopped running at any time. But I guess Anna was concerned that my antics would end badly and then yes, things might have gotten out of control. But that really has nothing to do with my semi-frightening garden.

It has been a pretty stressful summer. I’m not going to lie. My mother’s lingering and seemingly unsolvable illness takes a fair toll. And the process of writing a dissertation and awaiting feedback is a bit nerve-wracking. So the garden was intended to be a relaxing and rewarding project amid the stress producers over which I have limited control. It started out that way. Early on I got beautiful and delicious spinach from my sweet little garden. I’ve made numerous salads from the heads of Romaine lettuce that have flourished. My herb garden is thriving and while I can’t possibly use the amount of cilantro and parsley growing out there, they are at least staying in their little beds and behaving nicely.

The problem is the squash.

I think it is plotting to take over the world. Seriously. When I first planted the tiny little squash plants I put four of them in each bed. The beds are small but the plants were small so I figured it was a nice little arrangement. I plopped a tomato plant in the middle of each bed. It was all so cute and precious I sort of thought I should wear a prairie dress and a bonnet.

Each morning I dutifully went out and exclaimed at how lovely the plants were growing and how beautiful they were. Things were going along so nicely. I pulled three zucchini and made two loaves of bread from them. A few more crookneck graced our shish kabobs. It was all pretty idyllic.

And then came monsoon season.

Which, in and of itself was a bit of an anomaly. We don’t actually have monsoon season in Colorado. Typically, by mid-July there are lots of dire predictions of dry bones lying around from the terrible drought conditions. We are told to stop watering our lawns and then people drive around from the water district using up gallons and gallons of gasoline in search of the rogue suburban resident rebelliously wearing all black and watering the grass at midnight. But not this year.

This is the year of the monsoon. I think it has something to do with one of those Nino’s. What started out as a nice, refreshing, gentle daily afternoon pitter-patter of rain has, over the past couple of days, morphed into a rather violent cacophony of pouring rain, brilliant lightning flashes, and crashing thunder. All night long.

Which brings me back to the squash.

Had I done any actual research on gardening, I might have discovered that squash plants grow quite large. They spread and vine and make quite a growing ruckus, truth be told. I, of course, didn’t know this when I planted my cute little arrangement of four squash plants and one tomato in the 3’ x 3’ bed. Now the squash are growing outside of the beds, hanging off the edges and producing zucchini and crookneck as though they are operating an assembly line. The spaghetti squash plant has actually grown from one side of its bed, across the entire bed, and is reaching out to touch its squash friends in the bed next to it.

It is all a little frightening.

Last night, as I was trying to sleep but couldn’t because of the gigantic thunder and lightning storm raging outdoors, all I could think of was, ‘the squash are getting watered!’ And then, in the morning the sky clears and the sun comes out and beats down on the squash and they grow. And grow. And grow.

I’ve warned my family that if they can’t find me one day, they should look for me in the squash patch where I’m fairly certain there is a plan brewing to take me hostage.

Maybe before next summer I should do a little research. In the meantime…zucchini anyone?