Little By Little
On not despising small efforts
The rain was insistent last night, driving onto our roof. It’s true I felt cozy in our little cedar cabin, staring up at the wooden slats while bundled underneath my blue wooly blanket.
But at the same time, winter has been a bit of a slog, with intermittent coughs and colds fed by soggy days. Everyone and everything needs drying out.
This morning, I awoke before dawn, and padded to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Two mugs, side by side, and two small simmer pots, side by side on the stovetop. For my husband’s needs, I crafted a tea made of echinacea root, white willow bark, licorice root, chrysanthemum, honeysuckle, and ginger. For my own, dong guai, gotu kola, gingko biloba, hawthorn berry, nettle and oatstraw.
“I blended it myself,” I said, handing him the large mug.
“Of course you did,” he said, with that sly smile I love.
I cradled my mug, taking in the steamy earthy goodness and looked out the window. Above the evergreens, pinks of morning sunlight stretched across the clearing skies. The light crawled up stands of alders, turning the moss on them a glistening golden-green. Lichen likewise envelopes most of the deciduous trees now, and I couldn’t help but think of the psalm 104:14, God growing herbs for our service, in the right places at the right times, usnea reminding me it’s there for respiratory support. Perfect timing. God’s design.
And, like the sun slowly rising, an effervescent thought emerged: I know the names of plants. Not all of them, not even a sliver of all creation. But I know usnea. And, looking out, I recognize and know how to use hawthorn berry, blackberry leaf, and spruce shoots. This realization sinks deep, and I remembered my first introduction to herbs, almost 24 years ago.
My one year old daughter had eczema on her neck, and I read about a “herbs and kids” mini class through our town’s Parks and Recreation catalogue. I don’t recall exactly what I learned about chickweed, but I do remember getting knocked off my world a bit when the herbalist spoke of wholesome whole wheat breads. I recalled asking her, “And where do I get this wonderful flour to make bread with?” Her response had been perfect: “Just make your own.”
Make my own? What does that even mean? I had never seen a wheat berry in my life. I didn’t even know what they were.
I dove deeply into learning about nutrition and diet, reading and learning while toddlers were napping, and earned two degrees via snail mail to a school across the country. Then, bored of textbook nutrition, I embarked on how to use herbs as medicine, earning master (I still laugh at that, “master”, definitely small “m”) clinical herbalism certificates over time. The time I spent during those days were small and seemingly insignificant. But here I was now, sipping my own blend, more than two decades later of little by little and “over time”.
I guess I surprised myself.
The truth is: as long as the Lord allows, the sun will rise and the sun will set. One day, Lord willing, we will wake up one or two decades older than we are now, and all of the persistent little-by-little’s we do along the way, positive or negative, will either bless us or curse us in the morning as we rise. I contemplated this as I rinsed my mug, and planned my day.
May we not despise small efforts. And, by His grace, may we grow not only in age, but in wisdom as well.