Birds of a Feather

Last week, as I was out in the yard picking up sticks, investigating new blooms on my flowers, and trying to figure out why my compost pile hasn't turned to dirt yet, I noticed something caught in the wire fencing around Precious' dog run. It looked like a dead leaf, sort of. Yet it also seemed to be fuzzy.

As I got closer, I realized that it was a little bird that had wedged itself into one of the cross sections of the fence and was holding on for dear life. I got fairly close to the bird, trying to determine if it was injured. It seemed to be able to move its wings ok, and it adjusted its legs from time to time. It even did a cute little hiss at me by opening its beak and sticking out its tongue. But under no circumstances did it seem remotely interested in flying away. I went on my way, assuming he would eventually go on his way, and I didn't really think another thing of it.

The next morning, when I peeked out the window, I saw the bird still there. It must have had a long night perching on that thin wire, I thought. But I had to get to work, and there just wasn't time to get involved any further.

When the bird was still there that evening, I began to get worried. I walked back out to have a closer look, but I still couldn't detect any injury. On this second examination, however, I realized that this was a very young bird, and if I had to guess, I would say that he had embarked on his first flight and gotten no further than my fence before he realized how terrified he was.

His terror was growing by the minute, however, as I began to talk to him and offer him a spoon full of bird food as a snack. He had been hanging onto my fence for more than 24 hours, and he was surely hungry. But when a giant tries to pour bird seed down your throat with a plastic stick, an empty stomach is not exactly the most pressing item on your list of concerns, I guess.

Later that evening and the next morning I went back out to the fence and tried to convince him that he was strong enough to continue his journey. I talked as soothingly as I could; I even tried threatening him into flying by letting my dog come out and sniff around him. Nothing worked. I couldn't persuade him to fly.

When I looked out the window to check on him in the evening of the third day, I noticed that he had moved slightly, though he was still on the fence. But even more importantly, he was no longer alone. A second bird now sat right next to him and was chirping encouragingly. I was relieved. It's one thing to be afraid during your first attempt at flying. It's entirely another to get left behind.


I walked outside to look at the birds to make sure they weren't both stuck on my fence, and immediately the new bird flew away, leaving my little friend alone again. But the new bird didn't go very far. After watching me for a minute or two to determine that I was not going to hurt them, the other bird came back. Still chirping excitedly.

Not wanting to interrupt what was obviously an important intervention, I came back inside, but I prayed for the little bird who didn't think he could go on. There's nothing worse than being stuck, so I asked the Lord to give him courage. And I thanked him for the brother or sister, or maybe it was his mother, who was there to see him through.

Amazingly (or maybe not so much), within a few minutes I looked back out the window and both birds were gone. I laughed out loud and thanked the Lord. Not only for being a caring creator who knows even when a sparrow is hanging on for dear life to the side of a wire fence, but especially for being a Father to a woman who too often feels stuck in the loneliness and fear of her own life.

What a God -- who chose not to be just a giant with a plastic spoon to us but a feathered friend who knew what it was like to learn how to fly.

--

Tomorrow morning, on the suggestion of my oncologist, I am meeting with a genetic counselor. Because endometrial cancer is a very unusual diagnosis for a young woman, I am being considered as a possible carrier of Lynch Syndrome, a genetic predisposition which will put me at a higher risk to develop colon cancer. Please pray that I will remember that I am fearfully and wonderfully made regardless of the outcome, and that no cancer is more powerful than my Jesus.

Fenced In?

Recently, I've begun doing a little painting again. I have been slowly working on a watercolor of sparrows dining at a feeder since January -- my visual response to LL's poetry play over at Seedlings in Stone. She doesn't even know I started it back on January 26. I didn't want to tell her in case I never finished. So far, I haven't.

That's the problem with trying to live the creative life. It's risky. Projects get started and stopped like rush hour traffic. And sometimes, like we often hear on the 6 o'clock news, some of them never make it home. Casualties of the system.

Every time I pick up a paint brush, strap on my guitar, or sit down to the keyboard, it's like climbing onto a bus with no route number. I don't know where I'm going to end up. That's why all too often I just turn on the TV or go for a walk instead. It's safer that way.

So I wasn't surprised when last week, as I grabbed the paints and canvas, I skipped right over the sparrows and ended up painting a cow with a mind of its own, instead.

Months earlier, my mom had given me a copy of a photo she had taken of one member of their Angus herd basking in the glory of a flaming red tree on a beautiful fall day. She thought I might want to use it as the subject of a painting some day.


The colors were striking, the composition decent. If the painting turns out, I thought to myself, it would make a great Father's Day gift for my step-dad. So, mustering the creative courage required to begin something FOR someone, I set to work.

In the first sitting, I tackled the background, painstakingly mixing the colors for the chalky sky, the browning grass, the wheat field just beneath the horizon. I blocked in the fence posts, and added the receding tree line. And at that point, decided to call it a night.



A couple of nights later, I went back to the painting, still hoping to have it finished in time for Father's Day. I added the rest of the complex fencing system, added the smaller tree that had already lost most of its leaves, then spent a good deal of time trying to get the colors and scope and shading right on the red tree which was the focal point of the painting. By the time I had it just right, I realized I still needed to put the cow in, and it was already 11 p.m.

Painting animals has never really been part of my creative repertoire, so I proceeded carefully. I started with the head, and then outlined the body, working hard to keep the proportions right. Because the cow was all black, there was only very subtle shading, and so I carefully mixed a charcoal gray that would be slightly lighter than the black I was already using. I added in a few wisps of grass around the feet, and was amazed at how well I had done, all things considered.

But as I looked at the painting, I realized something was not right. The cow itself looked fine, but its addition into the composition was throwing something off. Suddenly it hit me. I had painted the cow a little bigger than I had intended, and it was now standing just OUTSIDE the fence.

By now, it was 11:20 p.m. on the night before Father's Day, and the paint wasn't even dry. I wasn't sure I could rework that section to move the cow back into the pasture without ruining the whole painting. So, in a moment of genius and to maintain the integrity of the composition, I decided to just repaint the wire of the fence as if the cow was pushing through it, trying to escape. Afterall, would anybody really look that closely at it anyway?


The next day, I slipped the painting into the house as a surprise for my step-dad. I had other stops to make, and by the time I ended up back at the house later that day, I was dying to know what he thought. When I found him on the porch, I asked him how he liked the painting, and he just smiled.

"It's good," he said. I was relieved. "But my cow's getting out."

We laughed over it; I tried to explain the problem with my technique; we agreed that the cows got through the fence in real life more than we'd like. And in the end, he said he liked it anyway.

But as I was driving home last night, I realized the truth that cow was teaching me. The truth about the creative process, that is. It's only risky when I think I'm in control. The sooner I realize that cows always get through the fence, the easier this creative life will be.

Surviving

Recently, I participated in one of the American Cancer Society's Relays for Life. My mom and I have been walking together in the event since before my cancer; last year we walked in it while I was continuing to battle cancer. This year, I walked as a survivor.

It's only been recently that I have begun to refer to myself as a cancer survivor. Last year, after I had finished chemotherapy and before we found the new spot of cancer in a lymph node, I attended a series of workshops on the topic of cancer survivorship. I enjoyed meeting the other participants; I learned a lot about life after a cancer diagnosis; but I just couldn't think of myself as a survivor.

Then, I thought pretty narrowly about what it means to survive. It seemed like victims who live after a plane crash can be called survivors because there is no longer any threat that the plane crash will take their lives. But as for cancer, I still feel threatened by it. Until I die of something else, I didn't feel I could be called a cancer survivor.

But over time, something started to happen that changed my mind. I went on living despite my cancer. I didn't live as if it didn't happen; I just figured out how to live now that it has. It's true that if I want to go on living then I am not free from the threat of cancer. (Just like a plane crash survivor is always at risk of another crash if she decides to go on flying.) But even though I am threatened by it, I don't have to submit to it. For me, being a cancer survivor means living a better life because of cancer.

Every time I continue to be active though my surgery scars ache, every time I submit my arms to multiple needle sticks for blood draws and CT scan dye, every time I lay my head on the pillow and sleep while I am anxiously awaiting test results, every time I dig deep and try to encourage someone else with cancer, even though I'd rather avoid the topic altogether, every time I make plans for the future even though the future still feels uncertain, every time I write "cancer" on my list of thank you's to Jesus, I am surviving cancer.

I am a survivor.

--

Speaking of surviving, I have received lots of good news over the past couple of weeks. My tumor marker came back normal a couple of weeks back, and I just received the results of a CT scan yesterday. Everything looks completely normal there, too. As far as I'm concerned, normal is the new exciting. I'll take normal any day of the week!

Wounded Hand

The goal: a lawn free of dandelions. The tools: a trowel and bucket. The schedule: a little each day.

This has been my anti-dandelion plan over the past several days. And today, if you drove past my house and peeked into my yard, you'd be hard-pressed to find a single dandelion. But even as I write, I can practically see the strong, persistent little plants spreading their roots, regenerating their stems, and reaching heavenward. Tomorrow, there will be more dandelions to dig.

Last week, as I put trowel to earth, extracting the hearty little plants one at a time with as much of their root intact as possible, I consciously thought of all the lessons I could learn from such a chore. Persistence, for one. Will I be dedicated to completely rid my lawn of dandelions by pulling them one at a time? Principle. Will I take the easy way out and just spray my lawn with chemicals, even though my conscience is pricked at just the thought of it? Perseverance. Will I continue on in the job even though my back hurts and I'm tired?

Then, after a few days into the job, the metaphor went deeper. Each dandelion became sin in my life, and if I didn't continue to rid the lawn of the parasites -- or my life of sin, then sin would take over. I thought about the implications of my neighbors' dandelions, even if my own lawn were clear. And about the consequences of letting just one dandelion going unchecked.

I continued each day, setting small goals, digging and thinking.

Yesterday, for the first time, my work seemed close to paying off. My lawn was beginning to look dandelion-free. But as I set to work, hoping to eradicate the last few plants, I got the news that my uncle had had a massive stroke and is fighting for his life. After hanging up the phone, I began digging with greater fervor, fighting the enemy in my lawn as I wish I could fight all of life's enemies.

I named some of the dandelions illness and suffering, and dug them up with intensity and grief. A few dandelions became cancer, and I felt personally affronted by their presence in my lawn. I sunk the shovel deeper and harder into the earth to get to the very bottom of their roots. I looked around and realized that after days of work, still I was surrounded by joblessness, death, broken relationships, shattered dreams, and capitalistic greed. I dug and dug, confronting problem after problem, becoming addicted to the power of the trowel in hand.

My bucket was overflowing; still I kept digging. Just digging and tossing, since there was no proper place to dispose of these sadnesses and sorrows. Then, I became aware that the sun was setting, and it was time to stop. As I began to clean up, I stooped and dug one more. When I started walking toward the garage, I found another to dig. It was hard to stop fighting until I realized that my hand was stinging. When I looked down, I nearly cried. I had wounded myself trying to save the world. But it wasn't enough.

All day today, my wounded hand has reminded me that my efforts are not only insufficient to save the world, they can't even save myself. My best efforts to persist and persevere will too often fail. I'll never be principled enough to rid my own heart of sin. And left to myself, the sorrows of the world will overwhelm me. All I can do is hurt myself.

But the wounded hands of my Jesus are entirely sufficient. He was wounded for my transgressions, and by his stripes we are healed.

Food-losophy

I love food. Not just for consuming, though. I love everything about food. I love to read about food, shop for food, study food, grow food, talk about food, cook food, even give food as gifts. Some people might even call me a "foodie."

Most Saturdays year round I find myself at a farmers' market, shopping for the perfect tomato or discussing the benefits of sprouting wheat berries. I know many of the farmers by name, and can even make recommendations back to them on their products.

Food also is the basis of many of my discussions with friends and family. We share recipes, discuss gardening tips, cook for each other and then plan our next meal together. We don't just talk about nutritional content or taste, though those items often are part of the discussion. Food has become a way of life, a cultural phenomenon. We're all just a bunch of foodies, really.

Because food is so central to who I am, however, altering my food habits actually becomes a change in lifestyle. Both for me and those I love. This has been true over the past several years as I have moved toward organic, locally grown, and seasonal food. Making a change like this has taken food out of the primarily social realm and transformed it into a political statement. (If I buy local, am I anti-global?) It's also raised questions about the non-food areas of my life. (If I don't want chemicals on my food, what about my lawn, my clothing, or my hair?)

Then came cancer. In the past year and a half, I have received all kinds of recommendations about what I should and shouldn't eat. As a foodie, I believe in the power of food even in regards to my health. But cancer already has changed so much of my life, does it have to change my food identity too?

I have never believed that what I eat is "just food." There are some obvious reasons to believe that our dietary intake affects our health -- just eat lots of cookies and cake for a few weeks straight, and the scales will confirm that. But I believe there is much more to the effects and benefits of food than that. Not only for our physical health, either. Food is cultural and spiritual and political and social. What we have available and choose to eat defines us and connects us and empowers us and helps us to know Jesus better.

And at the same time, food can become a source of guilt and turned into a commodity and used as a weapon to divide us from those we love because it is so personal and necessary. If I choose local and organic does that mean I think less of you for buying a conventionally grown banana? Or do I need to feel guilty when I occasionally buy bananas for myself? How can I still spend time with friends but choose not to eat at fast food restaurants?

Because food is more than "just food," I want my decisions about food to mean something, not just reflect my passing appetites. So over the past few months, I have been developing my food-losophy. These are the driving values that shape my food choices.

I believe that food is spiritual. Not only did Paul say that I must do all things, even eating and drinking, to the glory of God (1 Corinthians 10:31), Jesus taught us to ask for the food we would eat each day -- "daily bread" -- and instituted a simple meal of bread and wine as a memorial ritual, to be practiced as we wait for His return. God used the manna and fowl in the wilderness to reveal the stubbornness and ingratitude of the Israelites, and Paul tells us in several of his letters that food is a way we can love one another through abstaining, sharing, and giving. If "what" I eat doesn't matter to God, then at the very least "how" I eat does.

I believe that food is social. As a single adult, I often eat alone. And really I don't mind. But even if I spend a few meals by myself at the table, more often than not food connects me with others. Not only do I go to the farmers' market most Saturdays, but it's an errand I share with friends. We have at times even gone to the grocery store together, and it's definitely more fun that way. But the choices I make about my food aren't made in a vacuum. I care what others think about my food choices, and I try to listen to their opinions. Thankfully, I usually don't have to choose between my food preferences and time with others, but when I am faced with the choice, I weigh the consequences carefully. I want food to connect me to others; not isolate me. There are enough things in the world that separate me from others. I certainly don't want food to. I love others, and food, too much.

I believe food is simple. Recently, I heard an NPR commentator turn the phrase, "You are what you eat," into, "You are what you eat eats." The phrase was used in a story about free-range, grass-fed chickens, but really, since most of our food starts out as a living thing, we ultimately are eating the product of what our food ate. If it's a free-range chicken, then we are eating the product of the grass and bugs. If it's a conventionally-grown vegetable, then very likely we are eating at least some chemical residue from fertilizers, pesticides, and insecticides that were taken in through the roots, stems, or leaves. But it's more than just how the food is grown. I also would rather not buy pre-processed food. As often as I can, I buy ingredients in their most natural state and go from there. Instead of pasta sauce, I'd rather buy tomatoes and garlic. Instead of bread, I'd rather buy flour and yeast. Instead of buying from a retailer who bought from the wholesaler, who bought from the farmer, I'd rather buy straight from the farmer. This way, I control my food from start to finish. Because I am what I eat, too.

I believe food is sustainable. By sustainable, I simply mean that my food habits must be reasonable over time and a variety of circumstances. This value stems primarily from my belief in God's sovereignty over my life. Because the Lord has planned that I would live in the Midwest, and work at a job with a modest salary, and have a love of gardening and cooking, I don't eat a diet primarily of seaweed and oily fish, like salmon. For one thing, seaweed and salmon aren't raised around here, and for another, I can't afford to have it shipped daily. Since I believe that God has me here at this time in this place, I believe that there is a healthful, affordable diet for me right here and now. It may require work and sacrifice. It's not cheap to eat a locally grown, seasonal, organic diet. And at times, I may have to bend on some of my food choices. But this is because my food choices have to be sustainable.

Finally, I believe food is a matter of stewardship. Oh, how easy it is to overspend on the beautiful, fresh food at the farmers market on Saturday, and then throw half of it away the following Thursday because I didn't plan my week or my menus well. Because our individual food purchases are relatively cheap, this is an area that can be full of waste. It's also easy to overlook the potential for growing our own food, or preserving excess through freezing and canning because of the time investment. I recently heard a chef describing his grandmother's habit of using her finger to wipe out every last bit of an egg white when she was baking. That image of an aproned woman gently caressing the inside of an egg shell has become a symbol for me of what it means to be frugal and careful in my food choices.

Sometimes, these values are at odds with each other. Sometimes I am at odds with them all. (It's not always easy to live up to our own beliefs, afterall.) But this is my food-losophy, why I eat the way I do.

Some Changes

For months I have been observing all of the beautiful layouts of my talented blogging friends, yet I persisted in my own mediocrity. Formatting changes can be so cumbersome! Well, today, I finally took the plunge and created a look of my own. I hope this is not too disruptive.

Unfortunately, I redesigned instead of writing -- I am really making an effort to spend more time in front of my computer reaching out to you all. Tomorrow, perhaps.

I also wanted to point out a new friend I just found over at GettingDownWithJesus. We discovered we posted an almost identical picture with eerily similar thoughts (MINE -- HERS) very recently without ever having met. A quick email back and forth, and I know I have run across another kindred spirit. So glad to meet you, Jennifer!

Thanks to all who spend time with me here on these pages.

First Fruits

Tonight, I ate the first fruits of my garden. The leafy greens pictured above have been quietly growing in a make-shift container for the past couple of months. First, I sowed the teensy lettuce seeds in a 12-inch deep cardboard box lined with a garbage bag in my garage back in mid-February. Eventually, I moved the box outside under my plastic tube "greenhouse" for about a month where the magnified sun really turned on the growth. For the past few weeks, the container sat outside under the southeast eave near my garage door thriving in the cool wetness that has characterized our Spring. And tonight, I took the first cutting and enjoyed a delicious salad.

If you've never grown any of your own food, you might not be familiar with the joy of first fruits. For someone like me who grows just a small part of my annual diet, the first fruits are more of a surprise than anything. I did it! I actually grew something I can eat! But in most agrarian cultures, the harvesting of the first fruits was so significant it was celebrated as a religious festival.

Typically, the first fruits were given as an offering, and either burned or eaten by the religious leaders. The harvesters didn't mind giving up the first fruits, however. They were just a sign of the bounty to follow. In fact, the first fruits aren't always the best tasting or high quality pickings of the harvest. Though a long winter of scraping by on last year's leftovers certainly makes them taste pretty good by comparison. (And compared to the shipped-in lettuce we've been eating here in Indiana for the past four months, my lettuce tasted pretty darn good tonight.) No, the value of the first fruits was not in the food itself, but the promise that more food was to come. This year, there will be enough to satisfy.

Though the tradition of the Jewish Festival of First Fruits actually is counted 50 days after Passover, the Apostle Paul links the concept with Resurrection Sunday, calling Jesus the First Fruits of the Resurrection Life to come in one of his letters to the Corinthians. When the pastor quoted this passage yesterday during the Easter service, and I thought of my flourishing box of lettuce growing at home, the message of Easter took on a whole new meaning for me.

After three days in the ground, the Resurrection of Jesus was glorious and victorious. And not only that, it's a promise of even more to come. Enough to satisfy us for eternity.

"For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ all will be made alive. But each in his own order: Christ the first fruits, after that those who are Christ's at His coming, then comes the end, when He hands over the kingdom to the God and Father, when He has abolished all rule and all authority and power." 1 Corinthians 15:22-24