Garden Notes: A Harvest to Remember (and a winner!)


If he was still alive, my Grandpa Phillips would have turned 118 today. Born in 1898, he died in 1999 just before his 101st birthday. Our Jeffrey, who carries Grandpa’s name as his middle (“I want to name the baby after you,” I told him. “What’s your middle name?” He laughed and said, “I wasn’t important enough to have a middle name.” So, Jeffrey Ray it is.) wasn’t quite four months old when this part of his namesake passed. They met only one time before Grandpa fell ill. I have a picture of Grandpa beaming, a bundle of baby in his arms. Grandpa was a stubborn, independent, loving soul. He lived alone until the last year of his life. Even when arthritis and vertigo plagued him, he resisted moving in with my aunt as long as he could. He lived life on his own terms—farmer, father of nine, lover of automobiles and babies—I still miss him sometimes. His wife—my Grandma—died when I was five years old. He lived another 25 years without his beloved. One time I asked him why he never remarried. “I didn’t want anyone but my old woman,” he said, tears in his eyes.

When I was a little girl, Grandpa had the biggest, most beautiful garden. I remember staring wide-eyed at his strawberries every summer; I remember Grandma’s well-stocked pantry of home-canned goods.

Last night, I pulled up what was left of my pole beans. They were still producing, petite white blooms speaking promise here and there. But the Mexican bean beetles had made lace out of every heart shaped leaf on the vine. I spent two hours pulling up the beans by root, searching out the beetle larvae and destroying it. Then I cleared the bed of any leaf debris, hoping to deter any overwintering beetles.

It’s been a bad summer for my garden. As I looked out over my little patch of land I wondered if Grandpa ever had such a sad harvest. Something inside me felt like I’d let him down. I’ve had little energy to nurture the tender shoots of growing things these past few months. I’ve had little energy for much other than what is required.

This week our women’s group begins a new Bible study on the life of Nehemiah. In preparation I’ve been reading through that book of the Bible, freshening my memory to the details of Nehemiah’s story. Nehemiah felt moved to leave a prestigious position in Susa to lead the Jews in rebuilding the city walls of Jerusalem. At one point, in fear of attack from their enemies, Nehemiah says,

From that day on, half of my men did the work, while the other half were equipped with spears, shields, bows and armor. The officers posted themselves behind all the people of Judah who were building the wall. Those who carried material did their worked with one hand and held a weapon in the other, and each of the builders wore his sword at his side as he worked. … Neither I nor my brothers nor my men nor the guards with me took off our clothes; each had his weapon, even when he went for water.” (Neh. 4:16-18, 23)

How does one rebuild a thing while constantly standing guard? When you can’t even take a drink of water for fear of being ambushed by one thing or another?

Did my grandfather ever stand looking out over the garden of his life and wonder if what he was building would ever hold up? He lived through the Great Depression, two world wars, the struggle for civil rights, free love, and raising nine kids. His oldest son was a prisoner of war during the Korean Conflict, for Pete’s sake. His youngest son married at age 18—to a 16-year-old girl (my mother). He lost his wife of 53 years to cancer. And remained faithful to a memory for another 25.

And yet, in my memory he is always smiling.

The word remember is mentioned frequently in the book of Nehemiah. I’m paying attention to that. Today I’m remembering my Grandpa—Ray Phillips. And remembering feels like a rich harvest.

The winner of Laurie Klein’s beautiful book of poetry, Where the Sky Opens is Dolly! Yay, Dolly :). I’ll be in touch soon :).


The Gathering Waters


These past few days I cannot seem to shake this dis-ease—this disease of anxiety. It’s the feeling of the earth shifting under the feet; of doubt in all that I’ve known to be true. Our neighbors are hurting. We’ve given and donated and offered ourselves as available, but for those who’ve lost so much it can never be enough.

So I do what I always do when I feel helpless, I bury my nose in a book. A couple days ago I picked up Wendell Berry’s Jayber Crow, a novel I’ve always wanted to read but just never have until now. Summer is for reading, and what’s more, for reading fiction, in my book; so I finally took the plunge. I’ve savored every word of Berry’s economical writing, loving his storytelling voice, which—and this came as no surprise for one well-familiar with his poetry—is warm and rich and lovely.

Last night Jeff had a late meeting and Jeffrey had plans with friends, so after I fed the one remaining boy at home (grilled chicken and vegie kabobs, outside dining on the deck), it was with a thrill that I spread an old blanket out under the shade of the lilac bush. The ground is almost dry now from the heat of the summer sun, the sky dripped blue over me, and I could hear the grasses in the meadows shushing. I carried a stack of books with me like I was going on retreat and read with the songs of Robins as a backdrop.

Turned out I only needed the one book, Jayber Crow. I settled deeper and deeper into the story of orphan boy turned man and it was just the distraction I needed. Imagine my surprise, then, when I turned the page and came upon a chapter titled, “The Gathering Waters.”

In this chapter, Jayber is trying to get back home to Squire’s Landing, Kentucky after taking a roundabout way through Louisville. He is on foot and Berry soon has him walking through one of history’s greatest flood stories, The Great Flood of 1937. In Jayber’s story, he safely crosses a bridge in peril, only to find himself with nowhere to go. A policeman directs him to the capitol building, where he finds warmth, shelter, a hot meal, and a place to sleep for the night among other refugees.

I was thoroughly tired, and I didn’t exactly lie awake, but I didn’t exactly sleep either. As soon as I shut my eyes I could see the river again, only now I seemed to see it up and down its whole length. Where just a little while before people had been breathing and eating and going about their old, every day lives, now I could see the currents come riding in, at first picking up straws and dead leaves and little sticks, and then boards and pieces of firewood and whole logs, and then maybe the henhouse or the barn or the house itself. As if the mountains had melted and were flowing to the sea, the water rose and filled all the airy spaces of rooms and stalls and fields and woods, carrying away everything that would float, casting up the people and scattering them, scattering or drowning their animals and poultry flocks. The whole world, it seemed, was cast adrift, riding the currents, whirled about in eddies, the old life submerged and gone, the new not yet come.”

As I read Jayber’s story, I knew I was reading the story of so many West Virginians. My heart was in my throat as I poured over each line, each detailed description of Jayber’s encounters. The scenes were so real, so fresh to me, and images flashed through my mind of mud-filled school buildings, cars atop trees, houses spilled out into the streets. Everything I’ve seen and heard on the news these past few days came to the forefront of my mind and my heart was stilled. Berry places his hero in the Great Flood of 1937, a flood—Wikipedia tells me—that seeped from Pittsburgh to Cairo, Illinois, left one million people homeless, took 385 lives, and caused millions (billions by today’s standards) in property damage. This, during the Great Depression when resources for aid were scarce.

It feels like our little state has dipped back in time. We keep shaking our heads and wondering how such devastation can occur during this day and age. But this is what comes of a living scratched out in the shadow of these ancient mountains, a living born in the rich soil of river valleys. It is, as Berry wrote, “… as if the mountains had melted and were flowing to the sea.”

Cleanup will take a long time here. It will cost much, in more than dollars.

If you want to see more of what is going on here, here’s a little taste from the Weather Channel.

If you’d like to help with the recovery, check out these organizations.

The Red Cross
The United Way of Central West Virginia
Volunteer West Virginia
The Salvation Army

And please keep praying for our neighbors.

Garden Notes: Velveteen (or One Way to be Really Real)


Saturday night shimmered with the first fireflies. They beamed at us from high in the Maple tree, announcing summer with each winking light. It has been hot, more like July than May. And now June comes calling with her promise of fresh-mowed lawns and swimming pools. It feels like I blinked and missed spring.

Last night, I picked the last of the kale from my garden. I took the kitchen shears and snipped the leaves down to the quick. Then, I separated out the stems, meticulously pinching each sharp-smelling leaf from it’s purpled anchor. I left a pile of stems and discarded, yellowed leaves for the bunnies over by the fence. Don’t ask me why I would feed those thieving rodents. They ate most of my first kale crop. In the past, I’ve had trouble with deer, trouble with goats, and trouble with a red-bellied woodpecker, but the rabbits have never discovered how to hop up into my raised beds until this year. And those rascals are picky! They feasted on kale but left all my lettuces untouched. But yesterday, as we peered out the bay window while nibbling dinner, a tiny baby bunny peeked out from underneath my lilac bush. My heart melted. Velveteen, I thought, remembering my favorite children’s tale. That tiny face reminded me to love better, to be real.

I only wonder if baby bunnies like kale stems. We shall see. I have other plantlets to worry over now. The pole beans I planted under the greens are already vining up toward the sun, and my cucumbers and summer squash have poked through their seedy beginnings to lift helicopter faces through the soil. I’ve planted about half the tomato and pepper plants for the season, but must wait until I clear out the remaining lettuce to finish the planting.

Have I mentioned how gardening helps me slow down? The mental health benefits of gardening have long been documented. Researchers have linked gardening with everything from reduced stress to reduced belly fat, but for me? Tending this little patch of earth is a way of loving. With each leaflet I free from this loamy bed, I step out of myself and into the beginnings of nourishing. Not just my family, but my soul. When I think of the first garden, I get lost in the wonder of it all—this big magic of growing things, seed planting, pruning, and praying over a patch of soil.

Gardening is a way of changing the world.

And I’ve always wanted to be a world changer. When I grow and eat my own food, share it with others … this is a way of bringing the Kingdom into the here and now. The Holy comes close as I tend this little patch of earth I’ve been given.

That’s really real. Velveteen.

Holy Ghost

rhododendron scales


This morning when I go to fetch the paper and take Bonnie around the house, I notice our front porch is covered in bud scales from the rhododendron. The bush is bursting with pink, heavy from last night’s rain. I bend in to study the emerging flowers and marvel that I’ve never noticed how they shed an outer skin as they open to the sun. The pasty yellow-green scales overlap like shingles, providing protection for the sleeping bud. When petals begin to unfold, fanlike, the shingles drop away, making room for light and bumblebees to have their way.

All around my yard, color succumbs to time. The irises flop over on their sides, surrendering to the exertion of holding up heavy, bearded heads. The peony cascades like a fountain, splitting down its leafy middle. The lilac bush already fades to brown at her tips, rustling like paper in the breeze.

Spring is tired.

Time greens on nearby hills and I am stalled, lost in a deep inhale. In a couple hours, we will make the long drive to pick up our boy for the summer—his first year of college already a memory. This morning I gather up a few words, trying to slow down the moments, trying to let the breath escape slowly between my lips.

I’ve asked it over and over through the years: How do I slow down time?

It’s the same old cliché, same old fate we all fall into. The more I am trapped by the busy, the less I see the holy in each ticking second. To slow down time, I must be present, right where I am.

Sunday is Pentecost and I have sown that missing button on the one red blouse hanging in the closet. It’s the day we celebrate God sending the Holy Spirit down to us—we call it the birthday of the church. There will be balloons and streamers, probably birthday cake. But this week, as I have contemplated that old story of the tongues of flame falling from heaven, I have been more gentle with myself. I don’t mind singing Happy Birthday in church, it’s fun, to be sure. But as I contemplate this truth, that God lives inside of me, I wonder why my life doesn’t look … different.

Once again I make a promise to myself and to God: I will do better. It’s a lesson in seeing; a lesson in being. When I tune my senses to my immediate surroundings, I am aware of the temple I inhabit—I feel the Spirit stir inside me. Jesus said that a grain of wheat must fall to the ground and die before it grows. This must be how the dying feels.

I bend again and look at the scales from the rhododendron’s bloom pod. And I wonder anew at the beauty that can come from this kind of slow surrender.

Jesus for President


Yesterday—the day Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders came to town—was the National Day of Prayer, and Franklin Graham preached on the steps outside the West Virginia Capitol building as a part of his 50-state “Decision America Tour.” I got up early to put in my two-cents worth, but ended up falling back to sleep with my forehead pressed into the dining room floor, Bible open to Romans 8 on the table. I drove to work in the rain and tried to keep the conversation going, tried to focus on gratitude and love and all good things as I puttered under gray clouds.

Work was stressful and fast-paced and it felt like the gray clouds had misted indoors, dogging me with gloom. I was sitting outside a patient’s room writing a progress note when my friend David stopped to say hi. “I thought I’d go up to the seventh floor during lunch,” he said. “There’s a good view of the capitol from there. I thought I could pray a little. Want to come?”

I love to pray with people. Something about joining hearts together this way opens up that thin veil between heaven and earth. Jesus is so close. I’ll pray with just about anyone, anywhere.

“Sure,” I said.

So after we snarfed our lunch we took the elevator up and stood side-by-side looking down through a wall of glass. The capitol dome shone golden in the sun, but we couldn’t see the people who gathered there.

I closed my eyes for a minute and imagined the people down there, praying and singing, holding hands and hoping together. David offered up some words and I chimed in a little, but mostly, we were speechless. What do we pray for? We wondered out loud. Where is wisdom, where is love?

“When people ask me to pray for our country, I always end up praying for the Church,” David said. “That we would keep focused, keep our eyes where they should be.”

We wondered who would make the headlines on the local paper. Would prayer beat out Trump and Bernie? Of course, we knew better, but wouldn’t it be great? David said.

“Politics and religion make me so uncomfortable,” I confessed. And he agreed. It’s too tricky a tightrope to walk. A slippery slope. A rock and a hard place.

“God knew what He was doing when He brought Jesus into this world during the time that He did. Jesus’s country was occupied; you know? And the people wanted him to take it back, to be this warrior king, and fight. But he showed us, that isn’t the way.”

I thought about some of the political “fights” I’ve witnessed lately—on Facebook, and in person. What would Jesus think? I wondered.

“I have no hope in the Democratic Party,” the Charleston Gazette quotes Franklin Graham as saying to the people of West Virginia yesterday (the story about his appearance was relegated to section “C” of the paper. Trump made the big headline with the biggest photo. Sanders got co-lead but a smaller photograph). “I have no hope for the Republican Party. The only hope for this country is almighty God and the people of God.”

I haven’t always agreed with the things Graham has said, but this? This was a reminder I needed to hear. Romans 8 tells us He is working “all things together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” (verse 28). When I live out this belief, I can love much better—even those who disagree with my political views.

So when I pray for our country, for our world, I pray for the church. I pray for the hearts of our leaders but also for the hearts of the people. And I remember the posture Jesus modeled for us: servanthood. I pray for God to give me a heart of humility and grace.

And I trust that all these things are held in the hand of God.