Summertime & American Honey

Be Still

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 22:34:00 -0400

“Cease striving and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”

- Psalm 46:10

Foxes have built a den in an old ground hog hole under a cedar tree near the back of our farm. The vixen and her cubs have so far eaten about ten of our chickens. Dad has decided it’s time for them to go.

I volunteered to go fox hunting with him last Sunday evening. I’d never been hunting before. Dad asked me if I thought I could hold the .22 mag on target. I nodded: I had shot it before.

Treading softly and stifling my allergy induced cough, I followed Dad out to the hay field bordering the den. We sat at the ready, completely still and covered in camo.

My whole leg went to sleep but I so badly wanted to see a fox, I barely allowed myself to move it. Dad turned on the fox call - the one that sounded like a wounded cotton tail rabbit. My eyes scanned the hill crest, expecting to see fox ears pop over the horizon at any moment.

But an hour passed and nothing came. We saw plenty of birds and even attracted an owl, but no fox.

If I learned anything from my first hunting experience, I learned that stillness is hard. Maintaining the same position requires discipline and patience. I watched my Dad sit motionless waiting and tried my best to do the same.

Stillness brought chickadees, cardinals, and an owl. Mostly it brought peace.

Stillness does that. Stillness allows us to stop striving and seek God’s face. We find peace and enjoy the place God has us.

“You’ve been restless, Courtney,” a close friend told me today. She was right. I’ve been striving for a goal out of my power to pursue and for a goal out of my power to identify. I robbed myself of peace and God’s face.

She sent me to Psalm 46:10. And to a devotional her mom had just sent her. Here are some excerpts:

When I give you no special guidance, stay where you are. Concentrate on doing your everyday tasks in awareness of My Presence with you. The Joy of My Presence will shine on you, as you do everything for Me. Thus you invite Me into every aspect of your life. This is the secret not only of joyful living but also of victorious living. I designed you to depend on Me moment by moment, recognizing that apart from Me you can do nothing.

What does this being still and ceasing striving look like? I’m not quite sure myself. I’m still learning. But I have a feeling it may be something like Mary sitting at the feet of Jesus instead of Martha, losing the best by striving after what was good. My questions often echo Martha’s: “Lord, why have you asked me to walk this road with this work?”

But I think the Lord’s answer is the same:

“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

What is the best that Mary understood? “Look to the LORD and His strength; seek His face always,” Psalm 105:4 Cease striving. Seek God.

The Home Land

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 20:38:00 -0400

Seasons of life come and go. Some pass barely noticed. Others change so quickly my head reels and balance falters. During those times I crave stability and consistency: That feeling I got when I stood in the kitchen, elbows on the counter while Mom cooked. Or when I walked back to Grandma’s house from the barn, covered in horse hair and dirt.

Now, that counter belongs to someone else, and Grandma lives in another state. Mom found a real estate catalog two Februaries ago. We moved the next September, exchanging rivers, boating, and downtown Annapolis for cows, land, and Winchester.

As I drove to downtown Annapolis a few weeks ago, the yearning for home strengthened. I approached a part of my childhood that helped form my character and build my dreams. Memories flooded.

Baseball on summer nights with my dad and brother. Me never quite making the throw from 3rd base to 1st: I threw like a girl.

Fishing trips starting in the early afternoon lasting through the lavender painted evening until almost dark, and Dad reminding us of Red Right Returning as we headed for home from the Chesapeake Bay. Pulling in the driveway with sea water sticky hair and cranky stomachs.

Popping in at Grandma’s to take her out to ride horses with me and my brother. Cantering around hay fields drinking freedom and crisp air. Then falling off because the girth was too loose.

Daring cousins to swim in the snapping turtle pond water, and giggling at dragon fly larva nibbling our toes. And never quite nailing the front flip off the diving board. Sneaking around the pond with a flash light and crab net after dark, chasing after bull frog croaks. Playing Ghost in the Graveyard after dark. My brother clothes-lining himself.

Chasing after a flock of geese in a hayfield because Dad promised us 5 dollars if we caught one. He didn’t know one was lame. Or that he’d have to split 5 dollars 4 ways.

Pop Pop teaching my brother and I how to build fence and swing a hammer. Crab feasts on Grandma’s deck. And sneaking candy when we thought she wasn’t looking.

Waking up on Saturday mornings to Dad grinding coffee and the smell of bacon slipping through the bedroom door crack. Or my dog’s eyes enthusiastically staring at me down her nose’s long plain, begging me to get up and feed the chickens.

Navy football games with my best friend. Standing through a torrential down pour while she and her dad helped me finally understand more than a touchdown.

I grew up 5 minutes by car from the West River then a 5 minute boat ride from the Chesapeake Bay. I lived in southern Anne Arundel County filled with corn, soybeans, horses, boats, and red necks. I have my dad’s South County-Baltimore accent blended with my Mom’s subtle country twang. Even now, I love the land as much as the water. I enjoy being in cities but prefer the country.

Some of the greatest literature carry themes about returning to your home land. Odysseus fought to return home to Greece from battling in Troy. Nehemiah when exiled in Babylon longed to return to and rebuild Jerusalem. Margret Hale from North and South longed to return to her beloved childhood home in southern England. Our homes shape us, molding into our identity. Returning to my home turf is like returning to a part of myself.

But that doesn’t mean my identity is incomplete or I left a part of my soul behind when I moved to Virginia. Instead, another home expands my identity and enlarges my soul in a new way.

Like Margret Hale, I tend to romanticize my home land. But my home memories, though good, are past. I taped a verse to my computer a few years ago. The faded pencil lead reminds me that God is here with me now in this moment: …do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” (Isaiah 43:18,19a). I don’t want to miss new adventures by turning my face back toward my old home. I might, after all, end up like Lot’s wife – about as useful to God as a pillar of salt. I can’t seek God’s face if I’m always turning my head to the past. Psalm 105:4, “Look to the Lord and his strength; seek His face always.”

The Gift of Now

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 11:25:50 -0400

Half a second, and I successfully crossed another day off my calendar. Painfully fast compared to the long hours each square represents. The countdown ensues. Three days till the weekend, 18 more days till the beach, 31 days till I go back to school, till, till, till…what about now?

I once read a children’s story about a man who received his thread of life from a fairy. The maroon thread was wound into a ball with a loose end which, when pulled, caused the man to pass over days in his life. He pulled the thread whenever his life became difficult or in anyway unsatisfactory. Once he skipped all the days between his penniless, wifeless youth to his just-married, higher salary life. The fairy warned him not to pull the thread too often, or his life would pass too quickly. The man failed to heed her advice. He soon found himself an old man with only a small amount of thread left, wishing that his life had not passed so quickly.

My favorite days begin with a cup of coffee, good quiet time, and a long run, preferably all completed before 7:30 a.m. But a few weeks ago I decided it was time to fast from two of those: coffee and running. Surprisingly, rejoicing in each day became much harder. Running provides stress-relieving and mood-boosting endorphins, and coffee’s caffeine provides energy: the decreased endorphin and energy levels may have explained my struggle. I found myself counting down days and wishing for different moments even more than usual.

A bird let out his song from somewhere along New Hampshire Avenue during my walk to work one morning, reminding me of how much I missed living on our farm in Virginia. The man-made cacophony usually over-powers anything natural in the city. The complaining in my heart ensued. I can’t wait to go home this weekend. I’m tired of sitting at a desk all day. Basically, I’m tired.

Then I remembered the simple, yet profound, truth espoused in Ann Voskamp’s book One Thousand Gifts : find joy in each moment. Every moment. Too often I live my life for the next big adventure, vacation, or expected opportunity, failing to value the gift of now. This is the day the Lord has made, we’re told. Rejoice and be glad in it.

Tripping, Metro Seats, and Chivalry

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 22:14:00 -0400

I hate tripping. Especially in public. And for some reason today I tripped more than I did during my preteen years when I grew more legs than my brain knew what to do with. I tripped down Pennsylvania Avenue. And I tripped down H and 7th street. I can definitely confirm that gravity is indeed alive and well. But, best of all, I tripped walking up the escalator from the Dupont metro in the pouring rain. My hands hit the stairs, my shoe slid down a couple steps, and man at the top hollared “Everything all good?”

Everything seemed so until I stood under the awning at the bus stop.

Blood trickled down my shin from a gash from hitting the edge of the escalator steps and was spreading over my foot. As I was standing there thinking “Well that’s just great,” one of the guys at the bus stop noticed the blood and also asked if I was ok. I said I was fine, explained what happened, and thanked him for asking.

That asking meant something to me. It meant that chivalry, or at least basic human kindness, isn’t dead even if I sometimes think it is. Sometimes I despair of it when I have to open doors for myself or stand on the public transportation when plenty of men could offer their seats. But, then again, do I always appreciate chivalry enough when it is offered?

You could probably say that “I can do it myself!” is my mantra - or at least “I can do it myself until I tire of trying.” I’m usually type that will try to do something on my own until I prove to myself that I definitely cannot. Usually one of these episodes ends with me shoving the salsa jar at my brother for him to open. I don’t think my mentality is unique. Asking for help or accepting it when it’s offered requires humility. And sometimes humility is hard.

I’ve had a tendency lately of riding the D.C. metro home at rush hour. And as anyone remotely acquainted with D.C. knows, stepping on the rush hour metro is more like being stuffed in an already full sardine can. I usually carry a duffle bag and at least one extra bag with me on the ride. The last time I rode, I stood for a few metro stops, the weight of my bags pulling on my shoulders. When a seat finally opened up, I practically fell into it so I could claim it before anyone else, dragging my bags around me hoping I didn’t wack anyone in the process. I noticed a middle aged woman to my right attempt to claim a seat while another man started for it at the same time. She hesitated. Then he deferred. I smiled because, not only is chivalry not dead, I saw proof that it’s living.

Childhood Nostalgia

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 19:15:00 -0400

I cried when I watched Disney’s Toy Story 3. Andy had grown up and was leaving for college. When Andy gave Woody, Buzz, and his other treasured toys to that special little girl, I thought of my favorite childhood toys – the American Girl dolls, Cinderella Barbie, and Breyer Horses – boxed up in the basement. “I’m never giving up my toys!” I promised myself.

I soon found myself packing my belongings that I wanted to take to college with me. And, like Andy, I wasn’t taking my toys. I told myself at the time that I was only leaving for a short period of time. I’d go back home, and everything would be the same as it always was. But an aching sadness tinged with the anticipation that frequently accompanies change plagued me. The pit of my stomach told me what my head would not admit.

The night before I left for school, my belongings stood in a pile on the floor like the stone monuments the Israelites built to commemorate important events in their history. Whether I admitted it or not, I was standing on one of those life thresholds that we look back on as markers for change. On one side lay my childhood. On the other, the path to adulthood.

Growing up happens. We can’t escape it. Some people charge forward through the threshold to adulthood. Some, like myself, linger at the gate wishing with Peter Pan that we would never grow up.

But sometimes life shoves you, ready or not, through the gate.

Almost two years ago, life events started to push me through. One of my sisters got married and is now expecting her first child. My other sister has become engaged. My baby brother turned eighteen and will soon graduate from high school. My family moved from my childhood home of ten years. And I moved to college.

Sometimes it seems like I should still be playing paper dolls with sisters or pretending to be pirates with my brother, our faces painted with devious twirly mustaches.

I grew up watching Little Women and read all three of the books in Louisa May Alcott’s series. I always identified more with Jo than the other sisters. Meg was too ladylike, Beth too demure, and Amy too spoiled. Jo, like myself, had tomboy tendencies and a bad habit of speaking too frankly. And Jo also struggled with growing up.

After Jo refused Laurie’s proposal and Aunt March chose Amy to go to Europe, Jo’s struggle peaked. Exasperated, she cried to Marmee, “I love our home, but I’m just so fitful and I can’t stand being here! I’m sorry, I’m sorry Marmee. There’s just something really wrong with me. I want to change, but I – can’t.”

Marmee gently encouraged Jo to walk through change’s threshold and embrace her adulthood. Jo left for New York City to pursue her dream of becoming a writer. But her dream didn’t become a reality until she returned home and Beth’s death forced her to reexamine childhood memories. Afterwards, she wrote her book, Little Women, based on her childhood. Jo needed her childhood to achieve her dreams.

Like Jo, we need our childhood to achieve who we are. After all, it shapes us and forms us. While playing paperdolls with my sisters or pirates with my brother may not have taught me any important skill in and of themselves, my siblings and I formed unshakeable friendships and cultivated our imaginations. We also learned the art of diplomatic negotiations and the value of out of court settlement (i.e. do anything but tell Mom and Dad).

Our childhood also shapes our dreams. I grew up playing cowboys and Indians and working on either our or my grandparents’ farm. I learned a healthy appreciation for hard work and play. And, though I hope someday to be a writer, my biggest dream has been shaped by my childhood experiences: someday I want to have a farm with as many horses as I can ride and enough land to free graze animals.

And, I think we need to keep some of our childhood to an extent. Our adult lives need a piece of childhood’s innocence and mirth. As children, we dream of becoming adults. And as adults, we look back nostalgically upon our childhood. But Peter Pan had a point. Horseplay, imagination, and wonder all have their place in adult lives as well.

I may not have packed up my childhood toys, and life might have pushed me through the change’s threshold. But I know the memories, lessons, and dreams from my childhood, more valuable than the toys or the childish games, will never leave me.

Fellow Souls

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 23:14:00 -0500

No one is immune to suffering. It touches us in many ways shapes and forms.

A friend shared with me the physical struggles of a mutual friend - his deep concern clearly displayed in his mannerisms and expressions

Another friend confided in me her emotional suffering as she began to cry in my arms.

As I sat down to finish my homework, my own problems of impending deadlines and increasing homework began to pale in contrast. How can I ever think that homework is matters in the context of human struggle? How can I lose focus of the vastly more important eternal relationships I have with fellow souls?

As I become more aware of the different struggles humanity faces, I begin to wonder how I can become so focused on the trivial, the passing - forgetting what really lasts. Relationships.

As we focus on others, our own problems find their place in the context of life, and we begin to see their actual smallness.

Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. - Colossians 3:12

Giving Thanks for...

Thu, 02 Feb 2012 22:27:00 -0500

~Brilliant sunsets on bleak days~

~Waffles growing fluffy~

~Homework beside sunny windows~

~Running while most people sleep~

~First twinkling stars in the purple twilight-sky~

A Lesson from the Round Pen

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 20:05:00 -0500

Life has a way of teaching you lessons. Sometimes you have to land on your butt (or in my case, your shoulder) for the message to come across.

I’ve only been riding Aamira for about a year and a half. She’s six, about 14 hands, and an Arab mare (which means that, although she’s generally pretty mellow, she has her fair share of attitude). With Joe’s help, I’ve been learning to train her though natural horsemanship. She’s a brilliant animal, and frequently learns faster than I do.I made up my mind one day last summer to ride Aamira at a canter because a canter happens to be my favorite gate. Besides, I figured I’d never be able to compete in an endurance race if we couldn’t canter.

I had cantered her about a year ago with Joe’s help and figured she’d probably be fine with it. In my experience with Aamira to that point, she hadn’t done anything terribly stupid (like spooking at her own shadow), and she seemed to be generally level headed.

Here I made my first mistake: it had been a year since I had ridden a green horse at a canter.

After saddling, mounting, and walk/trotting without a hitch, I decided that it was time to get a little more speed going. Here I made mistake number two: It’s a good idea to work out the canter kinks before you actually get on her back.

I got her into a trot; then gave her some pressure for a canter. She only trotted faster – her black main bouncing wildly. Balance isn’t one of my greatest strengths so I was beginning to bounce wildly myself. A trot that fast is impossible to post or sit to.

She pinned her grey ears back against her neck. And still no canter.

“That’s just great. She’s ticked. What the heck am I supposed to do?” I decided to push on for a canter. “Dogonne it,” I thought. “I’ve asked you to canter and you’re going to canter!”

My persistence (I guess you could call it stubbornness) began to compete against hers.

More pressure from my legs. Her hooves pounded the gravel in the ring as she trotted faster and faster in a circle. Ears pinned back. More pressure. Finally, she started to step out in a canter.

One moment, everything was great. The very next, my shoulder and helmet hit the ground as I was catapulted off Aamira’s back.

I rolled over and stood up again as fast as I could. Joe had told me that if Aamira freaked out, she might buck towards me, her security. In her mind, I guess, you buck toward safety. She could inadvertently seriously injure the thing that could save her from the terrifying saddle. Go figure.

I looked across the ring. Aamira let out a couple more bucks then looked at me with a confused expression like “Wait. How’d you end up over there?”

“Yeah, stupid,” I thought. “You bucked me off.”

Though a little shaky from the adrenaline rush, I calmed her down, did some ground work, and climbed back in the saddle. Cantering, I decided, could wait till another time.

Persistence doesn’t always count. Especially if your persistence is predicated on misguided actions – like trying to canter a green horse by yourself after almost a year of no cantering.

Don’t get me wrong. Persistence has its place. But even persistence can be wrong if it’s misguided.

C.S. Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity that instincts are neither good nor bad. They are sometimes misapplied or uncontrolled due to our failure to follow Moral Law. Lewis writes,

If the Moral Law was one of our instincts, we ought to be able to point to some one impulse inside us which was always what we call ‘good,’ always in agreement with the rule of right behaviour. But you cannot. There is none of our impulses which the Moral Law may not sometimes tell us to suppress, and none which it may not sometimes tell us to encourage…The most dangerous thing you can do is to take any one impulse of your own nature and set it up as the thing you ought to follow at all costs. There is not one of them which will not make us into devils if we set it up as an absolute guide.

Persistence, though not necessarily an instinct, falls under this description. As I learned, persistence can create bad results if not guided by wisdom or sometimes suppressed.

In essence, both Aamira and I won out in the end. She cantered, and I ended up on the ground. But I learned something from the experience: not only do I need to learn more about natural horsemanship, but I need to exercise more caution in my persistence.

Quiet time musings...

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 22:32:00 -0500

I’m constantly amazed by how many times I can study the same passage of Scripture and still find some new insight. A few days ago I read I Peter 5:6-7

“Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all all your care upon Him for He cares for you”

which led to a somewhat obvious insight that never struck me before from that passage:

Casting our cares on God requires humility because we need to first recognize our own inadequacy and insufficiency.

It takes humility to cast your cares. If you’re relying on yourself (preaching to myself here), you won’t cast your cares because you think you can do it yourself. But speaking from personal experience, I frequently find I can’t do it myself - usually because God proves it to me.

I felt butterflies in my stomach a week before the regional debate championship began. I knew I’d be facing tough competition and wanted to break to out-rounds more than almost anything. Trusting in my own hard work, I prepped and prepped. I had been to regionals before and had broken. I should be able to do the same thing again.

Day one. I began to feel really funny during announcements and the morning devotional. I was pretty nervous, and my stomach began to feel very upset. I battled it until the end of announcements, then ran to the nearest restroom where I lost the little food that my anxious stomach had allowed me to eat for breakfast. As evidenced by comments on my ballots, my anxiety remained apparent the rest of the day.

Day two. I barely ate anything for breakfast. The first round that day was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. As if heaving in the bathroom wasn’t bad enough, I did it IN the round this time. I still wonder what the judge thought I was doing tucked under the table.

God knew I was trying to serve my own pride in my own strength. A double error on my part. It took humiliation for me to see my sin. I was not giving the tournament, one of my biggest cares, over to God because of my prideful belief that “I could handle it” if I just worked hard enough.

The night of the second day I remember talking to my dad. I told him that I never wanted to do anything in my own strength again. Have I? Yes. Is it ever worth it? Never.

As God has shown me time and time again, it takes humility to trust Him with our cares. We cannot handle it. I cannot handle it. Striving in our own strength, bearing our burdens alone, may work for a time. But in the end, it’s always always better to simply obey Peter’s admonition. Humble yourself. Trust God’s leadership. Give your concerns to Him. After all, He cares for you deeply.