Re-Enactors All

I'm sitting on a bale of straw in the front of our church with a lantern in my hand.  Don't worry, its unlit, so the Tarkio First Baptist church is not going up in a blaze of glory this chilly December night. Though I did hear rumors that at least one of the coffee can luminaria lining the driveway did resemble an old rig fire at some point in the evening.

While the Scriptures relating Jesus' birth are read over the sound system and beloved melodies roll from the grand piano, inviting ''he who has ears'' to come and hear all over town, we don our robes and become reenactors of that night in history when shepherds and angels indeed shared the fields and skies near Bethlehem.

Each half hour is a new experience. Reverence, silence, wonder, and awe dovetail with giggles, wiggles, half pint angels and twinkling earth bound stars.  The sheep penned in the doorway of the sanctuary lend an authentically pastoral sound track and attract the attention of all the youngest visitors.  Their owner watches his flock by night' with crook in hand from a folding chair.

The lantern prop lets watchers know that I am the innkeeper.

4 And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

5 To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

6 And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

7 And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. (Luke 2:4-7)

As soon as Mary and Joseph trudge the aisle, climb the steps and ever so gently place baby Jesus in our manger, I follow staidly with my lantern and settle to observe the proceedings as shepherds of assorted sizes and shapes, Magi from young to old, 3'6" to 6'6", and pint sized Stars approach the holy family.


Sometimes the tableau is quiet and the piano accompaniment is introspective and meditative.  Other times it is as noisy with quiverings, stirrings, and rumblings as I imagine Bethlehem city was that season of the census.  If the inns were overflowing, no way an observer would pen ''how still we see thee lie''.  As I close my eyes to listen to Bev's arrangement of themes from ''The Messiah", I try to visualize the events of that night, filling the scene with crowd noise, dust, the bellowing of oxen, the hustle, anxiety, and irritation that travelers express even today in traffic jams and airports.  If I had been that innkeeper, what would I have been?  I do not think he was without compassion.  The Bible does not say this, but I even picture him as the first Good Samaritan of the New Testament, offering a place of rest after so many others said no or looked the other way.  It is comforting to think he was drawn back to the stable by a sense of wonder or the music of a chorus of angels. Perhaps so.  But like as not, the innkeeper was instantly engrossed and overwhelmed by a million other preoccupations and demands and the expecting family was a problem dealt with, then checked off.

         ''How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven"

Our Live Nativity is, more often than not, oh, so very alive and not a beautiful still life at all.  But it blesses on so many levels.  For those who dress up and stand their half hours, it is an opportunity to listen with two ears, your mind and all your heart to the matchless poetry that is the Nativity in Scripture. Those who come, eat, visit, and watch become part of a living church.  The little ones may think it is the world's best dress up game (stars! angels! headdresses! shepherd's crooks to trip one's siblings!) but whose heart would not warm to hear two year old Josh ask ''Baby Jesus go?" when the manger is empty.

"No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin

Where meek souls will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.''

As I Went Down to the River to Pray....

O sinners, let's go down

Let's go down, come on down

O sinners, let's go down

Down in the river to pray

As I went down in the river to pray

Studying about that good ol' way

And who shall wear the robe and crown?

Good Lord show me the way

Some people cry at weddings.  As a matter of fact, I will admit to wiping away tears a time or two myself of either sentimentality or heartfelt emotion.  Either way,  tears are a sincere expression on these occasions and hardly exceptional or unusual, whatever the motivation.

I cry at baptisms.  When anyone, young or old, child or adult, climbs down those stairs and takes our preacher's hand as he or she steps into the water, I weep.  The words, 'I baptize you, my brother' or 'my sister' cut to the core of my being as something inside me recognizes  and acknowledges power outside my ability to comprehend or control.  This human ceremony is consecrated and designed, not merely by our tradition and understanding, but by the hand of God himself.  In baptism, we witness God in Man to our utmost gratitude and in spite of our limited cognizance.

This mystery is akin to the other vows we make in front of God's altar.  We cry at weddings at the solemnity of the promises pledged between two people, imperfect even as they are spoken.  We fail at these goals because we aren't perfect; we fail ourselves, those we love, and Lord only knows how many others, more times than we can measure.  But we still mean what we say, when we say it.

But this bond is different. What makes a little boy or girl stand up and make a decision so sublime and declare it to all their known world?  Who moves them to do this on their own, without Mom or Dad or friends or teacher from school or Grandmas or Grandpas?

51 Behold, I tell you a mystery ; we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed, 1 Corinthians 15:51.


1 Kings 19:11-13 (KJV)
11 And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake:

12 And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.


Well there's no doubt that life's a mystery
But so too is the human heart

Mary Chapin Carpenter...John Doe Noe.24

Whatever the means, whatever the volume, it is a matter to ponder in your own heart when someone proclaims their faith before God and their neighbors.  That declaration is in itself evidence of a mighty leap of faith.

What a marvel! Surely it is permitted to shed happy tears for every miracle we behold....

Let the Little Children Come

Home is more than three dimensions; time is of its essence.

We carry it with us as memory.

 Our corner of the Midwest is beautiful for those who can appreciate a landscape of subtle textures and harmonious hue, if one can overlook the periodic weather tantrums and months of Andrew Wyeth gray.
But never more so than after frost has sharpened the treeline, leaving branches bare and muffling the greening pastures with scarlet.

The church with the big white roof on the edge of town is home to my family.  The sanctuary has covered us during weddings, baptisms, Live Nativities, near sublime cantatas and near chaotic Vacation Bible schools. As behooves a gathering place for fallen man, it is forgiving of rambunctiousness, crayons in the pews, an occasional sucker, and other vagaries in behavior by those our Savior specifically welcomed in Matthew 19:14. " Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

The little children will be coming out of the woodwork on Sunday when parents, grandparents and other generous sorts open their trunks and hand out treats.  We'll fill the sanctuary with songs and silliness when the same sugar stoked kids practice the upcoming Christmas program.  And, before the afternoon is over, the church will empty into its backyard, where kids and helpers will carve letters into plump orange pumpkins, then march them out to the front yard, where they will be assembled into a coherent verse and brightly illuminated for all passers by.

I feel particularly rooted when I leave church, whether its after a service or taking the trash out to the dumpster after a pancake feed.  The vista from the parking lot is a microcosm of our lovely country.  Just behind the church is a cow pasture, the inhabitants of which have provided diversion and entertainment for little people ever since our church replaced the stained glass windows with clear glass.  Beyond the pasture is Tarkio Home Cemetery where family, friends, and forebears rest and we remember.  The bin site and elevator of what I still want to call Tarkio Pelleting is as close to a manmade skyline as we can muster on this rural prairie, but the rolling loess rises gently off the Tarkio River bottom east of town.  

This is the same vista we saw the stormy November day of Blake's grandmother's funeral and the boisterous April day Lee and Ryan married....the cows, the cemetery, the elevator below and the fields beyond.  In a couple of weeks, I'll look over that view after Aaron is baptized Sunday morning.

But today, there won't be time.  Today we'll carve pumpkins and corral kids and hand out treats. As silence falls again on the parking lot, the pumpkins will beam out a message straight from the little children Jesus loves.

Seventh Floor

Its the land of little tiny people, of blinking lights and buzzers, where caregivers with deft hands and experienced eyes and ears watch their charges, attuned by a sense deeper than technology to the vagaries and changes in the very small humans sleeping under blankets, or lights, or only miniature Huggies.  Mommies and daddies come to visit, to rock, to feed, to rejoice over poopy diapers, and to hope.  New babies are most beautiful to those closest to them; in no time at all, the moniters, tubes and tape become invisible and your baby's eyes, tiny hands, ears, chin and nose are absolutely identifiable with some family member.  Thus do we create the ties that bind.

Life is most elemental here and desires are few.  The little boys and girls need to be warm, and full, and be able to take deep breaths on their own.  What should be easy is not always so.  There is rejoicing each time a tiny goal is met by a tiny person. There is ongoing affirmation of our common humanity and a constant reminder of Jesus' words in Matthew: ' Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'  As these little children are, so were we.  We have been as helpless, as hurting; we have struggled against odds and with hope.  We need all the aid, all the prayers, all the loving hands, all the healing, to grow.  The touching, hands on care, sacrifice and dedication for these tiny ones is a breath taking reminder of the immanent love of our Savior.  

A Pig is not a Boy...or Remember the Gadarene Swine

'Piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy', is the marching song for Josh as he hustles through the big greenhouse as quickly as his short legs and untied shoes will allow.  The ritual varies little from day to day: Ann brings Aaron out to chore his 4H pigs and stops by to visit with Matt.  Josh gives us a big grin and heads east down the long sidewalk to the nether end of the house......to the door leading to the pig hut.

Josh has had more than his fair share of experience with needles in the past month.  As it turns out, so has Orville,one of Aaron's pigs. There were six pigs to start with, just three weeks old when Matt brought them out to their cozy little metal hut one chilly damp winter day. One little pig never did thrive and is buried out on the terraces out of reach of the farm dogs.  Four little pigs have grown to be solid oinkers, rushing in and out of the hut, snuzzling any lookers on through the fence.  These are the pigs Josh loves; he hangs off the hog wire until he tires of their limited antics and totters off to his next adventure.

Orville is what Aaron calls the fifth little pig, the current runt of the lot.  'Stupid' is what Matt calls him...but  then again, Matt might be referring to any one of the pen occupants; I could be mistaken.  Orville has been written off more than once.  If pigs were boys, I guess the others would be called 'bullies', hogging, if you will, the feed and the water. Orville has been picked on, no doubt about it.  Orville has had lots of shots; Orville has also been escorted to the water all by himself. More than once, Matt was ready to wash his hands and let him fend for himself, but Ann, either stubborn or softhearted, hated to give up the fight.  'He's a pig', was the consensus, but, nonetheless, the search was made for my old bowling ball.  Soon the swirling red ball was planted in the little pig lot to reduce the level of piggy boredom and give them something to pick on besides Orville.

All this work and worry for a pig?  Ann says she can't see Aaron's animals without visualizing pork loins.  Orville looks better to her, but 'still short of edible'.  If the idea of naming an animal likely to wind up in one and two pound packages in the freezer bothers you, then kindly recall there is an object in the lesson of a 4H project.  The object is the boy and the lesson is caring for a critter for which one has complete responsibility.  Next to honesty, is there a more vital or integral characteristic of growing up than accepting the obligation of daily chores?  Many of us have recurring nightmares about the class we never attended, but must still take the final; in our house, the bad dream bequeathed to posterity is the possibility that the calves are out of water, or that a hydrant has been left on and there will be no water at all at breakfast time.  Part of being grown up is the burden of worry about doing one's duty.  So much for the notion of a carefree childhood!  Only the swine in the pen are carefree, not the small boy who is admonished daily, 'Are those your good shoes?'

Should we look forward to eating Orville?  Or any of his compatriots?  I like a good pork burger as well as the next person, and I certainly have no compunctions about eating a named pig over an anonymous pig.  But in this case, the journey IS the point and I anticipate most the pictures I will take of Aaron and Pig 1,2,3, or 4 in the show ring this summer will focus on the kid and not the hog. Watching a young man in a plaid shirt, jeans, boots, showstick or brush,and a countenance serious and attentive will be deja vu' for us on the sidelines.  We will applaud everyone's efforts, blue ribbon, rosette, champion or no.  We'll bid at the auction, rewarding the kid with the premium, not just his critter and record each child and his animal for posterity in a photo.  There are grand champion animals, no doubt, and I hope the winners are compensated handsomely.  But  a pig is not a boy and the livestock show is primarily about girls and boys, not animals at all.  Are we people of more value than swine or cattle or sheep?  We can take care of them; they cannot reciprocate. We feed our animals; we make sure they are comfortable; we give them medicine when they are sick; and we even try to keep them from being 'bullied' by their own kind.  But when our children hurt, we spare no time, no effort, no expense and no anguish.  We know there is a difference; it doesn't take an ethicist  to explain it to us.  Our Lord banished the demons, saving the man, and allowing the pigs to perish in rather dramatic fashion...

 Matthew 8.30-32 (cf. Mark 5.11-13 and Luke 8.32-33) wrote:

And there was a good way off from them an herd of many swine feeding. So the devils besought him, saying, If thou cast us out, suffer us to go away into the herd of swine. And he said unto them, Go. And when they were come out, they went into the herd of swine: and, behold, the whole herd of swine ran violently down a steep place into the sea, and perished in the waters.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

Perhaps one thing only is more exciting than the birth of a child, and that is learning a new baby is on the way.  We were lucky parents; there was never great drama involved with our pregnancies and births.  That never stopped the prospective grandparents from figuratively jumping up and down, clapping their hands, even if these actions were never performed literally.  Our children have been more imaginative, presenting us with a box of 'Uncle Ben's Rice' for grandson number one and a improbably magnificent May trifecta in 2007. Josh honored his great grandpa by appearing on Grandpa Charlie's birthday.


But this type of glad tidings cannot be passe' and never gets old.  Meeting Ben late one Friday at Reagan National was cause enough to celebrate, but we thought it might have been just a little late to have a nightcap that evening when he carried a bottle upstairs in the Hampton Inn.  Ben had picked up a bottle of nice Barboursville wine en route from Charlottesville and carefully wrapped three gimme wine glasses in dish towels from home.  There was method to his madness.  Here, Mom, let me show you what we got for Kenzie's birthday?, he suggested, holding out his phone with a picture of a nice roomy rocking chair.  That's very nice, and a good idea, I say, knowing a new chair has been on their short list of home improvements.  You see, he adds, a bit slyly, people in our situation might be needing a rocking chair....trailing off with a monster grin beginning with the hairs on his head and reverberating clear down to his tennis shoes as his slightly slow, but now overjoyed mother shrieks and envelops him in a hug.  Such stealthy children~ saving up this banner headline of good news until each set of prospective grandparents can hear it in person.  Two time zones away, Kenzie is getting the chance to tell her folks they will be grandma and grandpa for the first time.  Glory be and thanks, indeed! A toast to us all, mommy and dad to be, aunties, uncles, cousins, great grandparents, and a grandma and grandpa overjoyed to share the excitement of a young couple that had been waiting patiently for their family.


But just two days later, I was headed home because little Josh's smashed thumb had not healed properly; surgery was necessary. Mommy, Daddy and Josh were at Community Hospital while Lizzie and Aaron stayed with Aunt Leo and Uncle Ryan.  It was time to turn worry into action, to pray while working.  Fear, regret, nagging sadness battled with hope and a faith that this too was a obstacle to get through, not give in to.  Josh wanted to walk around; if we picked him up, he'd wave ' bye', willing us to take him away from the room, the iv, the poking around.  A ride in the wheel chair was better than nothing.  Annie and Matt were grateful to everyone for their kindness, but showed the strain and helplessness we all feel when our little ones hurt.


Years and years ago, Jerry Jeff Walker recorded a song about his little boy.  The lyrics resonated with a new mom of a new baby boy.....at least this is how I remember them:


'They say a man in his time affects all mankind if he does what he sees must be done...
 So I humbly ask of all reasonable men, make a world that is safe for my son..'




This is the unspoken desire of every parent peeking in on their child at night, checking for chilly toes or just the reassurance of a cool brow or quiet breathing.  It is the prayer every morning of mothers and fathers with children miles away.  It is one way we can touch the finger of God, knowing His Son was left in harm's way, a sacrifice of Father and Son to redeem the whole wayward human race.  If this choice were ours to make, how could we?  'Now we see in a glass darkly...'  Even as fallen humanity, we can scarcely bear the thought.



With Easter morning upon us, with full knowledge that there is no bona fide iron clad bubble wrap to protect them,  I too humbly ask in my prayers at work, at sleep, watching my children and grandchildren and waiting eagerly for this new little person to appear 'for a world that is safe'......

Hard Labor

Monday afternoon I was threading my needle and preparing to sew candy canes onto Abbie's costume for the preschool Christmas program when she pulled herself up next to me on a tall stool and asked, 'Grandma, can I help?'  One of the blessings of grandparent-hood is the ability to say, 'sure, I wish you would!'  Unfortunately, with a sharp needle as a tool and an index finger already bleeding, I was forced to decline Abbie's generous offer and received a crestfallen countenance in response.  I hated to break her helpful 4 year old heart, but was buoyed yet again by her willing spirit.  For any parent, or grandparent, or teacher, or any other adult, rejoices to hear the request: 'Can I help?'  

There is a magic moment in a child's life when he knows he is no longer a baby and believes he is equal in many respects to mommy and daddy. ( This belief is apparent during daylight hours, but disappears inconveniently after 10 o'clock at night.)  Kids don't mind making their beds, will put their dishes in the sink, might attempt to put their clothes away, and even go through the motions of picking up toys.  I can remember this stage, because my vision of a clean room was so diametrically opposed to that of my father.  Unfortunately, this stage doesn't last.  All parents know there is an inverse relationship between a child's age and his willingness to be a useful contributor to the household and society past some critical point, probably not long after first grade.  Not surprisingly, this may also coincide with the Biblical age of accountability 


(Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life. Genesis 3:17). Toil is one of those words that sounds ugly, invoking sludge, mud, repetition , brain numbing, Sisyphean and even pointless labor.  It contrasts, at least to me, with the word 'work', which implies movement to a goal, an accomplishment, something of value and worth.  The good news is that most children do not recognize the nuanced differences between the words, 'toil' and 'work'.  The bad news is that, the older they get, they most certainly realize that 'toil' is not only hard, but also the only kind of work they are given.


This long muse is a result of powers way above the level of parental intervention.  The United States government wishes to take the burden of taskmaster off the shoulders of moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas as far as farm work is concerned.  No more of that nasty toil, dirt, grime, heat, cold, and other character building adjectives.  Nothing should be too hard for 'the children'.




I could regale you with tales from my childhood.  My father was in charge of hard, hard work and my sister and I kept our feelings to ourselves whenever he called us out and assigned us our chores.   I learned  to complete a task and maintain a stoic, if not cheerful, expression at the same age I learned the meaning of the word. Even while working on our own, we assumed our parents were omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent, just like the Trinity, as far as work was concerned.  Unlike cleaning our room, we took our farm work quite seriously.  I do not remember ever attempting to 'slide by' on any assignment my parents gave me, though their memories may differ.  

In many cases, working FOR our parents meant working WITH our parents.  That's how Blake grew up and that has been the experience for all three of our children.  It is difficult to feel picked on or punished when working alongside your father, grandfather, mother or grandmother.  Our greenhouse business has been the incubator for more than one work ethic.  When we first began building, there would be a kid on one end of the string making the straight line for posts.  There would be a kid fetching tools.  Or a kid holding the ladder.  Early on, covering a greenhouse was a family affair....even the youngest was heavy enough to sit on a corner of plastic and keep the wind from getting underneath.  Everyone took turns filling pots with potting mix; everyone was expected to help carry pots and flats.  The cardinal rule was: no bathroom break, no coffee break, no lunch break, until your plants or seeds are watered in.  Not all work is life or death, but some is.

When kids work, its not just about productivity or the bottom line.  One of Grandpa H.'s favorite aphorisms still holds true:'A boy is a boy; two boys is half a boy, and three boys is no boy at all!'  No, kids work for a host of reasons, very few pecuniary.  Moms and dads "take a kid to work" to keep them out of trouble; to teach by example; and, to spend time together.  The hardworking dad at our place confessed more than once that he recruited his kids' help because he liked the company, not just because they were "good help".

On weekend mornings in the spring, its hard to keep track of all the kids at the greenhouse.  Aaron is old enough now to be commandeered by his daddy to help feed pots or trays into the dirt machine, or help at the transplanter,   He's eight; he's spent parts of every spring of his life in these structures, crawling through the potting mix, untagging tagged flats, watering constructively and destructively moment to moment.  When his kindergarten class came to visit,  Aaron was the proud in-house expert.  I am proud of his knowledge and of his parents for starting him out right.  The younger kids will be almost five: too young to really work, but they will still push buttons on and off, help tag sporadically, push carts along the sidewalk, and plant the occasional flat of petunias or impatiens.  What they will mostly do, and quite responsibly, is take care of themselves and each other.  They'll amuse themselves, secure in the knowledge that they are on home turf and mom, dad, uncle, aunt, cousins, and grandparents are all within shouting distance.  

A farm, or a greenhouse, admittedly, can be a dangerous place.  So is the rest of the world.  But whatever rules and regs are imposed upon small businesses and family farms will not make them safer than the schools, playgrounds, shopping centers and parking lots kids frequent.  All work and no play may make Jack a dull boy, the nursery rhyme says, but the lesson our kids learned early and often was to never let on, or speak the fateful words: 'I'm bored!'  Working with adults builds ties that bind closer than gifts or treats.  The kids "own" their accomplishments; they know what Dad and Mom do for a living, and have a sense of how difficult it can be. If you spend your weekend holding sheetrock on your head, or straddling the metal framework of the  endwall of a greenhouse 16' feet in the air,  or watering the same 3000' sq.ft. of tomatoes that you watered the day before, you truly appreciate Sunday afternoon off.  And you will also know, for a fact, that you have accomplished something tangible.  These are lessons taught by life, by moms and dads who seem heartless and tone deaf, to kids who will suffer these torments, silently or no.  These same tales of hard work and "hardship" will pass into family legend, to be resurrected for the edification and example of the next generation of kids drug away from the cartoons to hold the tape measure or fetch the socket set.  

 Why do kids work with their folks?  


'What's bred in the bone...'