Blood, Bug Bites, and Dirt Under My Nails

         I know spring has arrived when I get the irresistible urge to trim the shrubs in my yard and till the soil in my garden. It has nothing to do with the swelling buds and greening grass and lengthening days: it is about whacking bushes and hacking at dirt.

         I know spring has arrived when my arms are bloody and covered with scratches, my ankles itch from fire-ant bites, and my muscles are so sore I can barely get out of my recliner to eat or do any of the myriad chores required around a house on a given day. It has nothing to do with flowers blooming and birds singing, and warming afternoons (we had those all winter – it is Texas after all): it is about blood, bug bites, and dirt under my nails.

         The arrival of spring comes a bit differently for those of us who are connected to the land. The pleasantness of the season comes from a much deeper place than just the arrival of better weather and the return to life. For me, spring allows me to become more involved with the earth, producing fruitful bounty from the garden. I watch physical change take place through the course of my labors. For a person whose career focuses far more on mental labor than physical labor, such physical exertion and reward provides a dramatically different sense of satisfaction.

         At my job it may take years before I see any tangible result of the work I have done.

         In my garden it only takes weeks before I get to enjoy the tangible results of the work I have done.

         When I experience the results of my job, I know I have done a good thing.

         When I experience the results of my physical labor, I taste a good thing.

         This year the irresistible urge to pull out the garden shears corresponds with the beginning of Lent. The coinciding of the time for spiritual rebirth and growth with the time of rebirth and growth in the natural world (in the northern hemisphere) today helped me have the alone time I need to focus on both physical and spiritual growth of the season.

         As I trimmed the shrubs I noticed how the trimming from previous years led to more lush plants. Just below the previous cut two or more sprouts had come forth. Cutting those, led to even more sprouts. Lent reminds me that I too need to be trimmed. Removing some of the clutter that clogs my mind and consumes my energy frees my mind to take up a new spiritual discipline.

         The cutting away does not just remove; it allows for adding on.

         One shrub, one I treat most harshly when it comes to the trimming, was this year the tallest in my garden. I cut it to the ground each year hoping it will die because it does not make a very attractive plant. It has beautiful blooms in that brief period of summer when it does bloom; the rest of the time it is a gangly overreaching bush. Perhaps it is fittingly called “esperanza.”

         Translated to English, esperanza (Spanish), means hope, expectation, promise, anticipation, and confidence.

         Isn’t that just like hope – to be so resilient? Despite being easily thrown away hope keeps coming back. During the season of Lent as I seek to renew my spirit and come even closer to God, I want to grow my hope. It may not be the prettiest gift around, but it helps me through when so many other qualities are found wanting.

         A little more time digging in the dirt and shaping the plants in my yard are just what my garden needs. Those are the same things my spirit needs.

Contemplating Loss

The passing of Whitney Houston dominated much of the entertainment news this past week, especially as it came on the eve of the Grammy Awards. A remembrance of Harvey Korman on the anniversary of his birth fell next to her obituary in the newspaper. A former co-worker’s son died. All three had me contemplating the impact of loss.

Word of Whitney Houston’s death came as I was listening to the posthumous release from Amy Winehouse. The connections did not escape me. I remembered Whitney as much of the soundtrack of my college years while Winehouse’s music provided the soundtrack for the past few years. Despite the beauty and connections that come through the music, and as so many memories connect to the music of the moment, I never connected to either of these two artists behind the songs.

Perhaps it was that the messiness of their lives distracted from the passion of the music.

Perhaps they were just too far away from reality to really matter.

The remembrance of Harvey Korman struck a deeper chord within me as the article on the 85^th anniversary of his birth (and four years after his death) highlighted some of the deepest belly laughs I have ever had in my life. His roles in sketch comedy genuinely brought out the laughter. I mourned his death in 2008 as much as I laughed at the replays of the skits.

Perhaps it was because he seemed like a real person whose comic escapades seemed to be an extension of his normal life.

Perhaps it was because I am too often the straight-man to my Tim Conway friends.

Word that the son of a former co-worker had died hit most deeply. I barely knew the young man from years ago in church and through working with his mother. Knowing his parents, grandparents, and older brother naturally personalized the death compounding the sadness of losing someone at such a young age.

Perhaps it was because of the hometown connection.

Perhaps it was because I work with young people and the loss of even one reminds me to do all I can to protect all youth.

Contrary to what might be expected, contemplation of the different deaths and their impact did not lead to morose moping, rather they led to a spiritual meditation that moved me into the spirit of Lent. Just as the three deaths moved me in drastically different ways, it moved me to think of loss and sacrifice in our lives.

Profoundly different, loss and sacrifice both fit in the Lenten season. As I consider the sacrifice I will make in consideration of the sacrifice God made for us at Easter, I look back to losses and what they have meant in my life. I compare them to the sacrifices. Losses always take a greater toll.

Sacrifice results from a choice I make.

Loss happens whether I choose it or not.

The three deaths I have been pondering all week long help drive home the distinction. Despite the various levels of connection, there is not at death I would choose for any of the individuals involved.

As I enter Lent, I enter questioning whether there is anything I can sacrifice that equals the loss God must have felt when His Son suffered crucifixion. While I will consider my sacrifice, I will, in this season, continue to consider loss.