Thistles and Silverlinings

It’s funny what you can find when you’re looking for something else.

Nearly three years ago, a fierce August windstorm leveled many trees here, ours included. Though devastating at first, we quickly enlisted a logger and a dozer operator to clear the property around the house. Since then, we have had more grass and fewer trees, but subtler changes have only recently become evident. For example, the pond is less shaded now, and the increased sunlight has led to rampant growth.

In the past weeks, I monitored musk thistle’s progress on the pond bank from afar—a tall, beautiful but extremely thorny, non-native invasive plant. The Missouri Department of Conservation says a single plant can produce 11,000 seeds, spread by silky parachutes. In fact, they feel so strongly about it that they require landowners to control it, with a fine as an added incentive. 

I planned to dig up the two or three plants I saw before their flowers went to seed, but the ground was dry, the days were busy, and I looked forward to the task about as much as, say, trimming a bobcat’s claws. It’s easy to postpone something like that. Then, a soaking rain left me with no excuse. On a recent morning, I suited up in Don’s Vietnam-era flight suit, sprayed with permethrin, pulled on rubber boots, donned heavy fireplace gloves, and waded into the weeds, ready to deal with thistles, ticks, chiggers, snakes, and cougars. The two or three plants I thought were there turned out to be two dozen plants. Unfortunately, while I was procrastinating, two of the flowers had already headed out, but that morning they were still wet with dew, and I was able to bag most of the seeds. When the few remaining seeds lifted on the breeze, I leaped for them in my ungraceful flight-suit and rubber-boot ballet, grateful not to have an audience. But I didn’t like to contemplate the numbers. Say 20 seeds got away. If only half of them mature, the next generation could produce 110,000 seeds because of my delay. When will I ever learn?

Despite this, my Saturday excursion had a silver lining. The tall thistles advertised their location, and a new blackberry patch was hidden beside them. Our last berries vanished 30 years ago; it’s sweet to see them again. They are small, hard, and glossy red now, and if all goes well in the next few weeks, I'll help them find their way into a pie. I owe it to the thistles.

Expectations

My dog, Gus, is pouting tonight. After the stretch of snow and frigid weather, when we had a fire in the fireplace every evening, he’s come to expect it, like kids who get s'mores at every campfire. His head in my lap, he stares into my eyes with his mournful ones. I eliminated the other possible causes—did he have to go outside? We went. Did he want a treat? Always, and I gave him one. Finally, disgruntled, he crept into the living room and lay down in front of a cold fireplace. But hey, it was 55 degrees out today.

Gus isn’t the only one around here with expectations. The nuthatch counts on finding dried mealworms on the kitchen windowsill every morning. It snatches one in its scissor-like beak and flies away. The male bluebird assumes there’ll be fresh water in the birdbath before he goes to battle with his adversary, his reflection in the bedroom window. And most of the frequent-flier songbirds anticipate black oil sunflower seeds in the bird feeder. But my buddy, Gus, thinks he deserves a few more perks than the birds, and he’s probably right.

 

Gus reveled in the snow. At first light, he was out the door like a released rocket, running in broad circles and diving face-first in mid-stride to scoop up a bite of the closest thing he’ll get to ice cream. 

Then he’d survey his kingdom and patrol the pond. As cold as it’s been, he didn’t last long, but would come inside and park in his favorite spot. The fireplace.

As warm as it was today, I started feeling chilly this evening. So, now, there’s a fire in the fireplace, and both of us are happy. Pass the marshmallows, please.

Every December, I retrieve a worn box from the basement containing a creche with clay figures Tava brought from Mexico. As I arrange them, I play my favorite Christmas music—James Taylor at Christmas—and reflect on the story set in a humble manger: the miracle of Mary’s baby, fully human and fully God, and the wide-eyed shepherds who came to worship. In this nativity set, the shepherds are absent, but they have left their little lamb to hold their place. 

The wise men appear with their gifts, though in the Gospel account, they visited Mary and Joseph later at home (see Matthew 2). An ox and a ram rest nearby, and though the scripture doesn’t specify animals, we can easily see them fitting into the manger scene. But then, there are the whimsical figures—a giraffe peering over Joseph’s shoulder and a baby elephant at the infant King’s feet—as if they belonged there. 

At first, it’s easy to dismiss the elephant and giraffe as not part of the historical account. But viewed allegorically, we might see ourselves in those out-of-place creatures—for who of us is worthy to stand before the God of Heaven? We are more out of place in God’s throne room than a giraffe in a manger. Yet because Jesus was born and offered His life as a sacrifice, we are invited into a relationship with an open door to God. 

Scripture describes this access: “...in Jesus Christ our Lord and through faith in Him, we may approach God with freedom and confidence” (Ephesians 3:11-12).

With that access in mind, the question naturally arises: how should we respond to Him? The last stanza of the old Christmas Carol “In the Bleak Midwinter” answers that question simply for me: 

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. 

If I were a wise man, I would know my part. 

What then can I give Him? 

I must give my heart.

My favorite version of that song is by James Taylor. You can hear it here.

At the Top of the Pillar

At the top of our front porch pillar is a colorful nest where five baby phoebes peer down silently as I pass. They stack together like spices in a pantry, and with their insatiable appetites, both parents work in tandem to provide a steady stream of food.

Early in the morning, I hear the male phoebe's song from across the yard. Perched on a bare yucca stem, he scans the ground for a fat bug to feed his nestlings. He swoops down, flying low like a crop duster, and pivots to catch his plump prey. After admiring his kill for a moment, he flies up to deliver a meal to the hungry chicks. Following him, the female wrestles with a butterfly to provide dinner for the voracious nestlings. Not all of their prey submit willingly. 

By this afternoon, three of the nestlings had climbed out of the nest and onto the pillar ledge, creating some breathing room in their stifling quarters. They won't be here much longer. At least then, the butterflies will be able to breathe a little easier.

Dad and the Acacia Tree

Where I grew up in rural Northern California, the four seasons were not sharply defined like they are here in the Ozarks. Most of the trees were evergreens, predominately redwoods, which didn't have noticeable seasonal changes; our seasons were defined more subtly. Summer was squealing with shock as we dipped into the frigid Smith River, and riding Larry Johnson's donkey, Joe. In the evenings, after dinner, we'd play softball with friends from the neighborhood, disbanding reluctantly at dusk when we could scarcely see home plate. 

Fall would begin with a familiar knot in my stomach at the loss of freedom. Then, I'd settle into the routine of math competitions, science projects, and history class with the handsome Mr. Vernon. 

But there was always something magical about spring. Spring was riding my bike to the beach down Moorehead Road, past the fields of cows and the handmade sign, For Sale - Red Wriggler Fish worms. Spring was the hum of bees, the fragrance of wildflowers on the wind, and the feeling that things were all right with the world.

In my world, spring was also defined by the acacia tree. My family lived in the parsonage behind the town's only church. In the front yard of the church was a vast acacia tree. It was a perfect tree for climbing, its massive limbs reaching so low that all but the very youngest of us could manage to scramble up and perch there after church. The limbs were covered with tiny holes, which, at the time, I thought were characteristic of acacia trees. I have since realized they were the work of woodpeckers and may have indicated something about the health of the tree. Whatever its condition, it always managed to put on a grand display in the spring when its tiny blossoms, like miniature yellow tennis balls, covered the tree, garnering the attention of everyone in town. 

My father, besides being the pastor, also acted as a groundskeeper. When he determined the tree was no longer safe, he cut it down without any notice, an act that managed to anger a significant part of the congregation and much of the community. But Dad was never too concerned about public opinion. He may have seemed impulsive at times, but he had probably been thinking about that tree for a long time. Dad didn't want to get into an extensive discussion about it or have a committee formed to study the implications of such an action. And he certainly didn't want to see any children get hurt.

One way or another, people managed to get over the loss, and nobody could stay mad at Dad for long. He was just too fun to be around. His laughter would fill a room like the aroma of mom's Sunday pot roast.

After all these years, I've decided that, besides keeping the church kids safe, my father did us all a favor by cutting down that old acacia tree. He reminded us that nothing here on earth, not even things of exquisite beauty, are permanent. Centuries ago, the prophet Isaiah said it best:

"The grass withers and the flowers fall,

because the breath of the Lord blows on them.

Surely the people are grass.

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

but the word of our God endures forever."

Isaiah 40:7, 8

In a world of falling blossoms, it's good to know that the God whose word endures is the One who loves us deeply, who sent His only Son so we can live.

And this is the testimony:

God has given us eternal life,

and this life is in His Son.

1 John 5:11

First published on March 20, 2011