In this morning’s Fruit of the Vine Jan Pierce reminds us that longevity and maturity aren’t necessarily the same thing when it comes to faith. Just because someone has “walked with the Lord for many years” doesn’t mean that “they’re hearty and healthy. We may overlook sickly, pale leaves and fail to see the root-bound structure beneath depleted soil.”
I like that metaphor.
Back when I taught middle school grammar and composition, I had a lot of plants in my room. A huge jade plant in the corner. A snake plant on the floor next to my desk. Aloe vera. African violet. Christmas cactus. Philodendron. A peace lily. Every once in awhile, I’d get a plant or a start from one of my students. They’d bring in the new plant with fresh soil and bright, green leaves. But a middle school classroom is hard on plants. Students pick at the closest leaves when they’re bored. Cut them with scissors. Poke at them with pencils. Attach paperclips to the stem. Root around in the soil. Every once in awhile, I would find a plant on the floor, tipped over, dirt in the carpet. Once, a plant was put in the microwave. I think it was a kind of experiment. The African violet got the worst of it. Its bright flowers attracted student attention. Not always the best thing for a plant.
Sometimes I feel like that plant. I haven’t been treated well. And I’m tired.
Jan’s reflection challenges me to let others “speak life” to me, and she encourages me also to “speak life into them.” After all, “it can be a challenge to read Scripture with fresh eyes and a hungry heart.... But as long as we have breath, we’re seeking to be more like [Jesus].” The promise is that we can grow as “we allow God to keep doing his good work in us.”
Finally, Jan offers this prayer: “Lord, when the cares of the world or my own apathy interfere with my love relationship with you, come and rescue me.”
Eric Muhr
A walk into the woods
Andy Henry reminds us in this morning’s Fruit of the Vine of God’s message for us in the 23rd Psalm. Because even though we “read that psalm as a metaphor” it is possible to experience “its truth in a very literal way.” While visiting family, Andy took time for a walk. Went outside. Into “the woods behind my parents’ house.... I was literally walking beside gentle streams and literally resting in green spaces.”
This August, I parked my car and decided – in an attempt to get outside more – to walk whenever possible, even if it meant reordering my day in order to make time for moving from place to place. Newberg is a small town, but an errand here and there adds up. I cover between 2 and 5 miles most days. Sometimes more. And I’ve noticed changes. My breathing is slower. My thinking is less rushed, more creative. My head feels cleaner, clearer – like I can see.
This is what Andy felt in his own lived experience of the psalm: “I noticed my strength returning and my perspective expanding.” And he offers us a challenge. “If you were to write your own psalm or poem of God’s care in creation, what elements and experiences would you include?”
I’d write about the different angles of light. I’d write about a section of sidewalk where water pools in the rain. I’d write about a produce market that stays open late on weeknights. I’d write about the smell of cinnamon and fried dough from a Mexican bakery I pass almost every morning. I’d write about the sense that God is present with me in creation – about what it is to be with God and aware of God and waiting for God all at the same time.
Andy asks us to notice how God, the divine Shepherd, “knows where to lead us for the nourishment, guidance, and healing we need. God knows the ‘good medicine’ we need for the moment.”
This week, it’s my hope that God will lead you “to places of renewal and teach [you] the peace of wild things.” In the meantime, I’ll be enjoying a doughnut from that Mexican bakery. And I’ll be praying for you.
Eric Muhr
By giving thanks and grieving
Judy Maurer offers a powerful Thanksgiving reminder for us in this morning’s Fruit of the Vine. That first celebration, remembered in history and commemorated each year on the fourth Thursday in November, probably didn’t feel much like the meal most of us anticipate. There was feasting. But that feast came at the end of what had been called “the great dying” by the Wampanoag. From 1616 to 1619, this and other coastal tribes “had lost 50 to 90 percent of their people due to yellow fever or perhaps the plague – spread by European fishermen and traders.” Then, in that first spring after 102 pilgrims came ashore, half of them “were dead of starvation.”
Judy points out that “only Edward Winslow mentions what has come to be known as Thanksgiving: ‘At which time amongst other Recreations, we exercised our Armes, many of the Indians coming amongst us ... whom for three dayes we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five Deere, which they brought to the Plantation.’” At the time of this reported feast, “only one family among the pilgrims had not lost at least one family member” and “Tisquantum (Squanto) was the sole survivor of his native village. There were many to grieve.”
It was a dark time.
Judy writes that she has friends for whom this will be “the first Thanksgiving since my husband (or wife or mother or sister) died. I just don’t want to ruin it all, remembering.” Others may have other griefs or pain they’re bearing, and our inclination is toward guilt. We don’t want to ruin the joy of a shared meal, of our time together.
Judy reminds us that we “are not ruining Thanksgiving by remembering. [We] are celebrating it the way it should be celebrated – by giving thanks and grieving.”
Psalm 126:5 offers a frame: “May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy.” Judy also offers this prayer: “Lord, we know you have our loved ones in your arms now. Comfort us until we come into your presence as well. Accept our grief as recognitions of their lives as a gift from you.”
Eric Muhr