Running for Treasure

 “O God, you declare your almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity: Grant us the fullness of your grace, that we, running to obtain your promises, may become partakers of your heavenly treasure …” Book of Common Prayer

I am told running is good for people. I see folks jog past my house every day and, to be completely honest, most look like they’re in misery. Frankly, I know I would be. My body has never produced a run-induced endorphin scientists or lab techs could ever hope to detect!

I don’t like to run. Not now, anyway, but neither did I enjoy it as a child or teen. If I needed to go somewhere, I went by bicycle. Wheels were where it was at. Running? Heck no (with one exception I will now confess for probably the first time ever, so gird your loins and prepare yourself for the shock of a lifetime):

As a young lad, it did not matter where I was or what I was doing; there was one thing that would get my legs to churching as if the hounds of perdition were hot on my heels – the sound of the ice cream truck coming up the street. I would hear it a block or two away and I would immediately drop everything, scramble at something nearing light speed for home and/or the living room and I’d scream at the top o’ my lungs (even if Mom was standing inches away): “The Ice Cream Truck’s a-comin’ – can I have a dime???!!!???”

Now, money was tight in our home and there was a lot we went without; there was a lot we couldn’t afford, but somehow Mom seemed able to plumb the depths of her purse and find a dime or two for ice cream. Not always, but often enough to encourage me to run for a few seconds most days of the summer. Occasionally she would only have one coin, in which case we got one of those ice creams or popsicles with two sticks so my brother and I could share.

I hated running, but oh was the reward worth the effort on those hot, dry summer days.

That’s the image that comes to mind with the Collect (a short community prayer) excerpted above. “Grant us the fullness of your grace, that we, RUNNING to obtain your promises may become partakers of your heavenly treasures …” 

That’s another childhood word that leaps to mind. Treasure! Who doesn’t yearn to win the lottery. I never play the lottery, but I still dream of winning it (silly me). I’d never go deep sea diving looking for gold doubloons around Caribbean shipwrecks, either, but boy would I love to walk along a Gulf-coast beach after a hurricane and accidentally stub my toe on an ancient wooden box tangled in seaweed and wrapped with a black flag emblazoned with Long John Silver’s skull and cross-bones! Treasure! Aargh, matie!!!

I love prayers that take me back to my childhood and child-like sense of wonder. Sometimes I think I have gotten all old and crusty and just a bit crotchety. I’ll admit I was all of that this week. I had an attitude that really stunk, but I just couldn’t hang on to the ol’ stinkin’ thinkin’ when thoughts of running for ice cream and treasure took me over the threshold and into God’s presence. My spirit rejoiced; my heart freshened up; and I got off my derriere long enough to realize God has made me a “partaker.” 

A group of Pharisees asked Jesus one time by what authority he said and did the things he said and did. The poor dolts didn’t realize that Jesus was playing ice cream music in his life and ministry while they were listening for dirges to go along with their theological pickles and conundrums. They’d forgotten what it was to have mums, with dimes hidden deep in the inner recesses of their purses – treasures waiting to be found. Chained to millstones, they’d forgotten the joy of running free and screaming for undeserved, unmerited treasures! Such was their loss.

Life is a popsicle with many sticks. We each get a part. That’s why we are part-takers, and for that, I am ever thankful here in this, our Valley. Thanks be to God. Amen. 

Arachnid Wars and Kitchen Webinars

 “Christ claims us for the great task of building humanity. We will not know what it means to be human until we are one.” Timothy Radcliffe 

I was watching a spider outside my kitchen widow the other day. Fall is often referred to as the Season of the Spider, and with good reason. As the sun shines throughout the day, I see their silken strands spread from one side of the yard to another. They’re hanging from trees, bushes, weeds, and even from thin air (it seems). 

When I come in from doing yard work, I sometimes resemble Indiana Jones coming in from some great adventure, all covered with webs, dirt, dust, and Lord only knows what else. I went out the front door the other day, which is quite unusual, as my preferred means of ingress and egress is through the garage. In any case, I whipped through the front door to go get the mail and heard the tell-tale sound of ripping webs as the door opened. As deaf as I am getting to be in my dotage, the sound could only mean one thing. I had entered the Kingdom of the Spiders, and my life was now hanging precariously by a thread and subject to the beneficence of the Arachnoid Royal!

Fortunately, he/she/it was in a good mood. I presume they had just finished munching on a cow or some other hapless critter who had gotten all tangled up in their web of intrigue. So I tossed aside those sticky-strands-threatening-entrapment with windmilling arms that, surprisingly, did not get me airborn, despite the number of RPMs I was generating.

My rule of thumb when dealing with wildlife of any sort is that if it is in the house, it is subject to my disciplinary measures, which include removing gently (when possible), or smashing smartly when kindness doesn’t work. I’m really quite binary that way. Life outdoors, though, is a different matter, and I really do try to respect their space. However, I’ll admit that doorways and pathways are off-limits to anything with more than two legs, so I took the broom to the porch and entryway and removed (with some sadness, I’ll admit) the engineering marvel that had been placed there so carefully by the eight-legged MacGuyver who’d claimed my ‘hood as his or her own.

Anyway, getting back to the spider with which I’d started this missive, I was amazed by the size and extensiveness of the kitchen window spider’s abode. Her lines stretched from the eaves of the house to the ground, and spread out about five or six feet in a half dozen directions. I often wonder how spiders construct their homes. I always see the webs after they’re finished, but never during construction. Do they drop down from a high spot and then push off from the wall, swinging from a strand, and doing a Tarzan yell? I don’t see how else they could accomplish the feat (or feet).

Anyway, this kitchen spider seemed to be quite at peace until unneighborly birds began flitting around looking for tender morsels to consume. Something alerted my friend to their presence, for after just a minute or so she crabwalked off the center of her web and found a nice little hiding spot beneath a nearby leaf, and hasn’t moved from there since.

Spiders tend to be solitary creatures, and being a solitary dude myself, I can appreciate their desire for dark corners and safe places. During this Covid situation, I’ve become even more hunkered down than usual and am beginning to wonder if I won’t engage in spinning webs myself. Radcliffe (in the quote above) suggests that one of Jesus’ goals is and was for us to be about the business, not of building webs for entrapment, but for connecting with one another, building up one another, supporting one another during times of trial and tribulation and, ultimately, creating the oneness God intended for the human race from the beginning.

That’s how I prefer to approach life, to be honest. I don’t want to hide – not even from enemies real or imagined. I want to connect, build, unite, and be a source of joy and strength here in this, our valley. If I am to be a web-slinger, that’s the kind I yearn to be!

All Creatures Great and Small

 

“… no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” Albert Camus

This has been a month for nature’s wilderness creatures to come visiting. A few weeks ago I mentioned birds flocking to bird-baths; the other day a deer and her fawn strolled past the house with nary a care in the world; last Sunday I found a couple of raccoons wrestling around out in the backyard “big as life.”

Now, none of these incidents would be all that unusual for folks in Madison County. I recall a moose waltzing up to the house to graze on a bit of spruce out front while its calf nibbled on other trees out back. Wild life always amazes me; I never tire of seeing creatures that “belong out in the wilderness” wandering about town. 

Here, though, wildlife tends to be fairly scarce. I live in the middle of a small city. Oh sure, Mount Baker and the North Cascades aren’t that far away; there are undeveloped parcels and some wetlands within a stone’s throw of the house. But still, I find it all rather thrilling and hope to heaven I never lose that sense of wonderment when animals come a’calling.

No matter how many generations separate me from Adam and Eve, I still feel a special kindred with nature – with all creatures great and small. I suppose I could do without the viruses that afflict us (especially this nasty Covid-19 variety that’s got us all flummoxed), but even they have their place. As my Dad said, “If everyone was healthy all the time, they’d complain about losing all their sick-leave when they retired!”

I must admit I don’t think about nature all that much, so when I do see something out of the ordinary, like raccoons wrestling out back, I sit up and take notice. If I’ve got my thinking cap on (boy, that’s a term I don’t think I’ve heard or used in decades), I’ll run, grab my camera, and try to snap a few pictures before they disappear. Most critters have a knack for vanishing when I run for my Instamatic (which is actually a phone and not a camera, or vice versa), so I was pleasantly surprised when the ‘coons stuck around.

I don’t know why I wanted to take their pictures. I suppose that if I had gone out and asked them to stand still they would have made tracks for the fence, hole, or some other point of egress. But they continued playing while I stayed in the house, and I snapped a couple photos to post online and a minute or two of video for posterity. Their antics brightened up an otherwise dull day.

I know there’s a lot that goes on when I’m not watching. Thinking about those few creatures I have seen over the past few weeks suggests there are many more out there fending for themselves – and mostly without much help or attention from me. I’ve avoided putting out bird feed or other food, mostly because our area is so rich with nutritional resources that such efforts would be counter-productive. Birds and animals need to learn to make their way in life and, judging from their girths, I think they’ve been amply successful.

As I meditate on all these little things, I am reminded that while we humans tend to think nature belongs “out there” somewhere, and our turf is defined by silly lines we draw on paper (keeping surveyors and tax-collectors in business), the world really knows no bounds. Deer and squirrels and skunks go where they want to; spiders build their webs to catch prey, and viruses hitch rides upon drops of vapor to make their way person to person like in the days of old time long distance calling. 

Why we humans think we’re masters of anything is beyond me. Sometime in the next few years – or a decade or two – I’ll be feeding the worms, and that’s OK, for in the words of that old rascal, Job, “I know my redeemer lives.” 

I expect He’ll look out his window one day, see me wrestling with my siblings, and yell to Jesus to go grab his camera. That’s a picture of heaven here in this, our valley.

Birds of a Feather Splash Together

The discipline of Christian life is mostly about learning to be still and listen. Timothy Radcliffe (Take the Plunge)

I glanced outside this morning and found quite a variety of birds splashing around in the birdbath we’ve got in the backyard. I’ve been filling it (and one out front) quite diligently all through the spring and summer, but this is the first time this year I’ve actually found it being used. I presume that perhaps fear of contracting Avian Flu has kept my feathered friends from gathering. I note, also, that this summer seems to have been cooler and wetter than usual.

In summers past, birds and squirrels always seemed to enjoy frolicking in the little concrete ponds we’ve got around the house. They’re generally pretty safe, and on those odd occasions a neighborhood cat sneaks into the yard, they’re up high enough (and out in the open) so they really needn’t worry about a sneak attack from the fuzzy felines that roam the green-scapes around here.

The only time the fonts are an issue is when some of the crows decide they want to enjoy a sip of the wet stuff. I don’t want to fat-shame the pudgy darlings, but a couple times they’ve toppled the bowls off the columns as they’ve set their plump rumps too close to the edge too carelessly.

Be that as it may be, I enjoy watching birds splashing around. I am fascinated by the sparkling water drops flying to and fro every bit as much as if they were being shaken off a dog coming in out of the lake. It is amazing how much water those dainty creatures can displace with their feathers. 

Picture Note: It was interesting (to me) that a variety of birds

could enjoy the bath without fighting or arguing.

Photo credit: Keith Axberg (2020)

If and when the bowl gets toppled, I simply go on out and set it back up and fill it again. It’s not that heavy, and I think word gets around about what the crows have done, so once they’ve toppled the font, they stay away for a while. I think the robins, swallows, and starlings make fun of them, to be honest, and I’m sure I’ve heard a humming bird or two go from humming to hee hawing on occasion. 

That can’t sit well with the Corvus Corax crew. They are surprisingly sensitive creatures, you know, and embarrass easily. They’re also quite smart. They warn each other when a car is coming, but sadly are often hit by pickups because they can’t say, “truck,” instead of “caw.” So when the other birds make fun of them they simply move on (as they have no caws to stick around).

People should be like that. People should be able to pick up and move on when things in life bug them or hurt them. Believe it or not, there are people on social media who have different views than me, and as we find the sites increasingly bombarded by political nastiness, I find I can either stick around and fight fire with fire (or toss water on the firebrands who burn me up), or I can simply scroll quickly past those I suspect to be less than correct. I choose the latter course.

I’ve only unfriended one person, and that was due to their attacking friends of mine. After repeated requests for them to be kind (and their refusal to do so), I unfriended and blocked them. I hated doing it because I honestly value hearing different perspectives. But I won’t abide nastiness (even among those with whom I am otherwise in agreement). So I have chosen to scroll past (quickly) so as to avoid them soiling the water in which I am cooling my feathers.

Timothy Radcliffe suggests we take time to be still and listen, and I think that’s a sentiment worth embracing. The problem with social media is that what was once intended to bring us closer together has become a megaphone from which we humans spew forth the ugliness of what’s on our minds and in our hearts.

Saint Paul tells us if it doesn’t build us up, or help build up the community, we would be wise to toss it overboard. If a wide variety of birds  can share the birdbath without squabbling in my neighborhood, maybe we can learn to share the blessings of our lives here in this, our valley, too.

Cleanliness Can Be Cat o’tonic

Let your continual mercy, O Lord, cleanse and defend your church … Book of Common Prayer (Proper 13)

I had the wonderful opportunity to take care of our daughter’s cat while she and her family were away on vacation last week. Sophie (the cat) is about twelve years old and very well behaved. At her age, she has slowed down a bit. I suspect her sleep-time runs about twenty to twenty-two hours a day. I remember when she was younger and never slept more than eighteen hours a day.

Be that as it may, I found myself amazed at just how much dust and loose fur filled the house with her presence. She was a walking, living, breathing debris field, and there was really no staying ahead of her mess-wise. She tracked cat litter throughout the house after doing her business; she left evidence of her wanderings atop the stove and kitchen island, window sills, and every other horizontal surface.

I got to wondering if God doesn’t have that same issue with us. We often think of God as living “up there” in heaven, even though Jesus made it very clear that we live in heaven right here on earth. It isn’t that there isn’t also that heavenly abode upstairs, but it is dangerous for us to ignore this earth, our island home, as being outside of God’s own presence or influence. The earth is not a disposable diaper in which we do our business and, when finished, see it taken off and thrown away by the Great Diaper Changer in the Sky.

The creation story reminds us we live in a garden. We are called to take care of it, and to take care of one another. 

I should note that our daughter didn’t “dump” the cat on us, either. She asked if I would take care of Sophie. I know their cat is precious to them, and rather than run over to their house to feed and water the cat (which was their request), I offered to house the cat here so she wouldn’t feel neglected or abandoned. 

Despite my allergies to cat dander and the consequent stuffy nose, tight chest, and other unpleasant discomforts, I considered those temporary travails as piffle when compared to the delights of providing hearth and home to a feline companion for such a comparatively short period of time.

The collect (prayer) quoted atop this column acknowledges the truth that someone always needs to watch over us and to clean up after us. Sophie  is an indoor cat, which is good; I didn’t want to risk losing it or having her run away or bring home fleas, ticks, or get run over by the neighborhood cars and trucks. But it also meant there was the added responsibility of entertaining her royal highness and meeting her various needs (which actually weren’t many).

God does that for us, too. Just as I cleaned the cat box daily and saw to it there was fresh food (as needed) and fresh water throughout the day (even adding ice cubes so the water would be fresh and cool, and not old and stale), so God provides for us and “continually” rewards us with God’s own good favor. 

Although there is much I can (and do) grump and grouse about, the fact is that life is and has been pretty good for me. Still, my attitude often stinks, and for that reason I really identify with the prayer, asking not just for a spot of God’s mercy, but for that “continual mercy” to wash over me like a cat o’ract, because the fact is, I am continually making little messes that, over time, will become big messes, and I don’t see them as easily in their development as God does with his untrammeled vision and overflowing wisdom.

A friend reminded me that cats don’t have owners; they have staff. I worry I sometimes treat God more like staff than as the true lover and companion God considers me to be. That would be cat o’strophic, wouldn’t it? I hope I’m not so cat o’tonic I can’t change; that would be cat o’clysmic!

God, help us become what you’ve always called us to be here in this, your valley. Amen.

We Must Take Stock in Our Socks

Perfection is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. Anne Lamotte

I removed my socks last night, and just before I pulled them off I couldn’t help but notice I had a sizeable hole worn into the sock where the ball of my feet sits, or stands, or whatever it is the balls of one’s feet do when they are enveloped by a stocking.

Normally I would not have noticed such a thing, but darned if it wasn’t the fourth day in a row I had discovered holes worn into the day’s socks. As I sat down to type this I looked at the bottom of my shoeless feet (for I seldom wear shoes or slippers in the house) and I’ll be gob smacked into next week if another one of my footies doesn’t have a hole in it too!

Good heavens. I knew I was “called” to be holy – but to be actually “found” holey as well?

I suppose since I opened the package of stockings from which these came all at once, it makes sense that they would all wear out at about the same time as well. Fortunately, being a soul who knows the frailties of a sole, I have another package of footwear sitting in my dresser drawer. I can only pray that moths and other sock-eating vermin haven’t discovered these fresh goods yet.

It seems life is full of streaks. Back when we had sports (pre-Covid), people would note a player was on a hot streak or a cold streak, depending on his or her success while at bat or shooting baskets. I’d never considered myself much of a streaker, but apparently I have now joined that illustrious band of streaking athletes. I place myself in that category simply because I wear athletic socks, or I wear nothing at all – (on my feet, that is).

Nothing lasts forever, of course. Streaks end; socks get holes; shirt cuffs become frayed; buttons pop off; zippers even lose their little zippities. I lost a zip pull on one of my favorite coats a while back. I loved that coat and had worn it for several decades. It was still in pretty good shape and kept me warm and dry, so I replaced the pull with an extra-large paper clip. After a while, I had to admit it was a functional (though inelegant) solution, but the time had come to buy a new winter coat.

I’ve never been much of a clothes horse. I don’t mind wearing things until they’re past the “worn out” stage of life. I have no eye for fashion. I bought my first leisure suit a year after the civilized world decided leisure suits were ugly and stupid; I simply didn’t know any better. I think it was reruns of The Brady Bunch that inspired that particular choice at the time.

I suspect that could be one reason Jesus suggested we take our cue from the lilies of the field. “They neither sow nor reap, yet even Solomon in all his glory didn’t look nearly as sharp …” 

I wonder what it is about the human psyche that moves us to acquire so much stuff in life, or pursue the latest and greatest gadgets and gizmos. Perhaps Augustine, that wonderfully flawed saint from Hippo (North Arica – yes, that great theologian was an African) had it right when he said, “You have made us for yourself (O Lord), and the heart is restless until it finds its rest in You.”

Maybe we are little more than earth-socks. We’re worn, dingy, and have got holes that need darning. The itch that won’t go away is probably little more than God’s toes poking through those holes and waiting for us to stop long enough so God can stitch us up with love. It’s threads of love that knit us together (according to Colossians 2).

It’s both touching and ironic to think: God does not desire any of us to be damned, but works to darn us here in this life. One could even say, God is Knit-pickie and undy-feeted. 

One “could” say that, but I wouldn’t (at least not while wearing a leisure suit). Let’s just toe the line and love everyone alike here in this, our valley.

Masked Perfection

Perfection is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. Anne Lamotte 

Oh what fresh perdition are we in for today? 

I don’t know about you, but I am a bit tired of always being a bit tired. People are starting to talk about quarantine fatigue, and I understand the sentiment. I haven’t eaten a meal in or from a restaurant since at least March (and it could be February – I never thought to keep track). I go grocery shopping weekly and occasionally to the hardware store for some essential fix-it doo-dad. But beyond that (and my near-daily walks), I just haven’t gotten out of the house. 

I discovered some time ago that my view of the outside world during these days of the pandemic has been fairly well limited to what I can see from my front and back windows, and from what I’m exposed to on the television. I don’t really care for what I’m served from the telly, so I minimize my consumption in that regard. It’s not that I want to be ignorant, but I find it all so repetitious, and if the only thing one is exposed to is trash, well then it makes sense that it could be the source of that garbage feeling I’ve been getting. So I watch enough to confirm the world is still turning (as is my stomach) and then let it go for the sake of my peace of mind and sanity. 

Although life today is a bit of a mixed bag (or a bag of haggis, at any rate) there are things that help break us out of our stupor. Or at least I’ve got some things that keep me on my toes and remind me not to take life too seriously. 

We began a bathroom remodel at the first of the year and had the old tub and surround replaced with a beautiful walk-in shower and a shower pan that, remarkably, grips better when wet than when dry. I don’t know how they do that, but I love a grippy floor. I hate windmilling my way around a room or down a ramp, especially as the warranty on that thing laughingly called my body has been expired for quite a few decades. So to step into a shower and feel more secure than when wearing spike-shoes on ice is a wonderful feeling. 

When the surround was done, we purchased everything we needed to finish the bathroom remodel and it was delivered the day the state shut down for the current pandemic, so the garage looks like one of those long-forgotten and abandoned warehouses you see posted on those websites that major in minor weirdness. 

I tend to be pretty patient, so have quietly awaited the re-opening of the state. It has finally happened, so I have been able to round up contractors to drop by to give me estimates for finishing the bathroom (as the original team is no longer available). The struggle, though, has been remembering to unlearn all the things that come so automatically to us in a civilized society. 

As people trundle up the driveway, my first instinct is to open the door and do a “hail thee fellow well met,” but instead the new code of the west is to don our masks, stand six feet apart, and quick-draw a hand-waving finger-wiggle. The visitor makes every effort not to touch anything in the house as he takes measurements, listens to the muffled wishes of the homeowner, and asks questions through the hygienic face covering his wife has made him. 

We did (and do) the best we can under the circumstances. After a while, I suspect many of the things we find awkward today will become second nature. Just as hand-shaking originally signaled the lack of a claymore sword hidden up one’s sleeve, so the donning of a mask will come to represent one’s desire for the “other’s” good health. 

Some future generation watching television reruns may find themselves asking why the lone stranger took to wearing his mask up around his eyes, and when they do, I expect we’ll all have a big laugh in this, our valley. Until then, keep your distance, wash your hands, and keep your mouth and nose under wraps. We at the Madisonian want y’all healthy for Christmas, folks!