Still Here
Living among the creaks and groans of decay and grief
The old apple tree in the orchard fell, toppled by the weight of the abundance of apples upon aging limbs, the excess underground moisture (too much of a good thing) providing an unstable and shifting foundation. One early and mild autumn storm, the body of the tree ripped into the flimpsy fence initially put around it to keep the sheep from nibbling, and, upended, the roots were exposed to daylight and the open air. Apples were everywhere.
I’m certain this is most people’s experience on homesteads: there is always something to repair or replace or remodel. Our roof was replaced completely last year, for example, and in that process we discovered that improper framing caused so much of the leakage within the house, so the job was much larger and more costly than expected. The dishwasher was also removed last year, exposing DIY wiring (masking tape? really?) and an explanation for its constant troubles and ultimate demise. Currently, there are bowls underneath all three sinks in the house, because all three (the fourth having been removed to mitigate a horrible mold problem behind it) are in various stages of repair and replacement. The oven cannot maintain a constant temperature, and we still do not have our gutter system properly running.
It feels like for every mole we whack, two more show up.
Then, two days ago, the sweet hawthorn tree in the backyard, laden with beautiful winter berries, fell over as well.
This is all I see when my ears are acutely attuned to the creaks and groans of decay.
My dear friend’s memorial service was last Saturday. It was four hours long, and I didn’t want it to end. If it ended, the reality of her being gone would have nowhere else to go except to, well, the reality of her being gone. It was so strange to be sitting at the fellowship tables afterwards, picking at crackers and cheese. Part of me kept looking for my regular seatmate.
My BSF study sends me into the book of Daniel. What kind of horrors did Daniel witness and live through, I hope never to taste. His abiding faith and understanding of God’s sovereignty over all things gives me great encouragement and comfort, even as I relate to the very real regard I feel and carry in my heart over what has transpired during my life, and what is yet to come for the world at large. Today, emotions run high for election day in my country. It is all chaff for this moment in history; God has already set His king upon Zion. I long to sit at His feet away from it all. To have Him lay me in green pastures and lead me beside still waters.
I also find myself in the book of Acts, and slowly read Paul’s interaction with Felix. Oh, Felix, so close in understanding, yet so far in his heart to overcome his own flesh and greed. At the close of my reading today, Paul remains a physical prisoner, but his heart and his spirit mirror that of Daniel, both in dens of lions yet secure in the hands of almighty God. Neither lament their place in time or history. But I struggle at times; I am a worm.
I take myself out on a solo date. I get my earrings downsized, and then enjoy a cinnamon mocha while watching people and overhearing snippets of conversations. I keep my phone closed and instead read from the coffee shop’s newsletter of the calendar of events, and mark several local music bands, comedy shows, and lectures that I might enjoy attending with my husband. We need more date nights. Later, I stop by the market and buy a few roses for my desk. Small pleasures, small reminders of the goodness of God in where I am right now, in this time, in this place, in this house, in this body.
At my friend’s service, I take a photo of a photo, one of hundreds scattered throughout the room. In it, she is beautiful as usual, her smile full of warmth. Every time I come across it, I cry. I don’t know if this helps me or not.
I bring in the gotu kola from outside, clear out the rest of the garden from summer’s abundance, and seed cover crops into my raised beds. The fallen apple tree slowly gets limbs cut down to manageable sizes, and we collect all of the apples we can for pressing. They are sadly delicious, a last offering. My daughter attempts to rescue the hawthorn, relieving it of the heaviest branches and trying to prop it back into place, and we continue to make plans and set aside funds as we are able to repair the household headaches.
The sun rises, the sun sets, and He who holds the stars in His hand still knows them all by name. My branches may be heavy laden with fruit that I at times fail to appreciate, and the ground may be shifting out of my own control, but I am still here by the Lord’s will and mercy, and will be so until He calls me home.
So are you. Stay steadfast, friend. Stay in the Word, stay in your local church, stay in fellowship with the saints who are here right now. And may God lovingly and patiently tune all of our hearts so that our eyes and ears are attuned more to His grace and less to our own worldly and swiftly passing troubles.
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above;
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.
But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God: I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever. Ps 52:8
Beautiful!!