Our garden this year started slowly. We had arranged for a local farmer to till the ground for us in March, but that fell through, and we were at mid-April, the typical last frost time, with a handful of seed packets but without a plowed garden bed. I’ve read about the no-till garden options, and I wish I would have done that, but I hadn’t, so we were at a standstill.
That is, until our new neighbor offered to come over and till the garden with his workhorse and plow! I felt like a character in a Wendell Berry novel living in Port William. Even our grandkids got to watch!
Then Hule, our daughter, and I, all took turns the next few weeks planting what we wanted from our seed selections. I wanted squash and okra. Hule also planted watermelon and pumpkins. Sarah planted some of the more exotic and heirloom choices.
At first there was very little to show for our efforts. Then there were weeks of drought and hot weather, and we got a sprinkler. We likely over-watered because our water bill spiked up to over $100 from our typical $44/mo. There went our “saving money” by having a garden.
But, eventually, and through many hours of Hule’s tending and weeding and laying out landscape cloth, the okra emerged in a nice straight line. Little baby watermelons came out—some too cute not to be picked and pocketed by our grandson. Even pumpkins grew! That has been fun watching the pumpkin vines stretch out into the pasture as they make more and more small orange globes.
But, by far the star of the show has been our summer squash. Unbeknownst to us, all 3 of the planters had taken on the task of planting hills of squash. So—we have been inundated with it. I’ve made fried squash, boiled squash, stir fry squash, and squash casserole. We’ve brought bags of squash to our daughter in Lexington and to our neighbor. And, for those “big’uns” (as my grandparents might have said) we created a new compost pile—a pile of crooked neck gold out in the field that, we hope, will eventually become soil again. Some of the squash went to our 3 chickens, but they are particular and slow to eat it. If there is any hope of fruit or worms, they turn their beaks up and snub the squash.
Whenever I watch this miraculous unfolding of vine and leaf and fruit from seed, sun, soil, and water, I am taken aback. When the small green striped orb in my grandson’s hand becomes as big as his torso in just a few short weeks, and develops into something enough to satisfy several families at a picnic, I am in awe. When I look at the gorgeous yellow and purple blossoms on the okra stalks morph into green edible pods and the gigantic orange squash blossoms birth cute baby yellow vegetables overnight, I am mesmerized.
The garden becomes a sanctuary.
It all reminds me of a quote—one of my favorite—from Wendell Berry from The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays:
“…outdoors we are confronted everywhere with wonders; we see that the miraculous is not extraordinary but the common mode of existence. It is our daily bread. Whoever really has considered the lilies of the field or the birds of the air and pondered the improbability of their existence in this warm world within the cold and empty stellar distances will hardly balk at the turning of water into wine – which was, after all, a very small miracle. We forget the greater and still continuing miracle by which water (with soil and sunlight) is turned into grapes.”
I traveled to our Southern Illinois family farm to observe the April 8, 2024, eclipse. In 2017, I saw 1 minute 28 seconds of totality on this same Illinois farm, but I didn’t know at the time that I could look at totality without my eclipse glasses—so in 2017 I only saw what most of the others outside of totality saw, other than the heightened darkness that came to the environment around me during totality and a complete disappearance of the sun through the dark protective film of my glasses.
This year I discovered that the real show, for me, is both watching totality without eclipse glasses—a true wonder in itself—and just as delightful, watching others, hearing others, simultaneously experiencing this heavenly splendor right next to me.
I watched my 5 year old grandson, Julian, dancing around in celebratory circles, pausing occasionally to put on his special glasses to announce the phases of the disappearing sun: “I can see the moon.” ” It’s just a fingernail!” “It’s a sliver!” “The bees are going back to their beehive.” And during totality, “I can see two stars.” “I actually can see a red “o” on the moon,” he declared when a solar prominence, a burst of plasma, became visible from the bottom of the sun’s corona.
My son-in-law observed, “You can feel it getting dark. Oh gosh, it’s happening.” Then seconds later he exclaimed, “Oh, there it is! There it is, you can see it! Oh, my gosh!” with a similar enthusiasm and excitement as he had when I stood next to him nearly 8 years earlier at the birth of his first child.
My daughter, currently working on her Ph.D. in astronomy and physics, watched in her quiet—the same quiet I saw when she herself was born—a silent, peaceful, pensive observation. Afterwards she imagined the experience of traveling along the path of totality to observe it longer.
My husband, Hule, was instructing the grands when to use their glasses and when they could take them off. He responded to the cooling atmosphere by putting on a sweatshirt and commented on the stars and birds. He tried to help Julian and Hazel appreciate the beauty of the occasion and know its significance.
My 87-year-old mother was observing totality for the first time. She reminisced about how in grade school they had made a pinhole projector to observe an eclipse. She commented on the streetlight coming on. And when totality came, she said: “I can’t see it in my glasses…I’m not going to be able to see anything. I’m afraid to take my glasses off.” Then, “Oh. Oh my gosh! It’s spectacular! Are you sure it’s ok? Oh…That’s the brightest diamond I’ve ever seen.” “It is fabulous.” “Oh, I wish we could get a picture of that, it’s so beautiful.”
Photo Credit: Rick Fienberg
My always animated granddaughter Hazel was the most memorable for me to observe. Just before totality she said, “It’s so dark! It’s literally the smallest sliver!” “Woe!” “Something is happening to the ground! I see the stars. It’s happening, and it’s so dark!” And once totality arrived, she declared, “It’s amazing. It’s making me feel so weird. I feel cold, but I know I’m not. Why is it sunset on all sides? That is amazing, I’ve never seen anything like that!” And about 2 minutes in, Hazel requested, “Everyone be quiet, I want to see if I can listen.”
(…And a little child shall lead them…) …
Hazel in awe
Then, the light came rushing back with a streak.
We were all changed in 4 minutes and 7.5 seconds.
Hazel’s amazement and celebration continued. “Wow, I’ve never seen that…” breathing deeply, nearly panting. (“Except in a book,” Jude added.) Hazel bent at the knees then stood straight up, head to the heavens, eyes closed, and she laughed and laughed. Papa Hule came over and stroked her head. She squealed in delight. “I’m sooo happy!” Twirling around and around she repeated, “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen totality in my life, and I’m 7!”
The way I remember what people said and how they looked, is that I had 4 cameras going. One iPhone was on a tripod with a solar filter, watching the sun, but “listening in” on conversations. Another, iPhone was propped up across the way, observing the observers. I held one iPad on my lap with a solar lens attached and had another “naked” iPhone in my hand. I could not otherwise have taken it all in and remembered it as accurately.
For me the eclipse was impressionistic, poetic:
Diminution of the sun—one bite at a time.
Twilight twice in one half hour period,
And the sudden darkness,
Expected, but only known when experienced.
Then,
A Communal gasp of Awe.
A narrow Ring of bright cool light dancing around a perfect dark disc.
The large bright creation that keeps us alive and feeling “safe” on earth is covered up by our nightlight.
Our heat and light,
Our stove and lamp,
Is overshadowed by
Our nighttime companion,.
It becomes one with its companion.
There is a union of them with one another,
And them with us.
Creatures around us are bewildered and we think of our early ancestors who were taken aback, astonished, surprised, when dark descended during full day and when “Brother Sun and Sister Moon” fused.
Light is foundational to our existence. We are drawn to the light of the stars. We bask in sunshine, observe sunsets and sunrises. These mark our days. Despite years of discoveries, so many mysteries remain concerning light.
Jesus called Himself the Light of the world. He instructed us not to allow our light to be hidden. He tells us to let our light shine.
Photo I took during 2024 eclipse
God has hidden shadows, metaphors, similes, everywhere, since the beginning of time. What is the meaning here?
With light comes dark. When Light departs, dark descends. Darkness covered the earth during the day when Christ died: from noon until 3 o’clock.
My daughter, Julianne, an astrophysicist, must include “dark matter” in her mathematical equations to simulate theoretical galaxy formations.
God, is there a meaning here in this eclipse? You drew an X over the U.S. with the last two eclipses observable to us. Our Illinois farm was in the center of the X. But, like contrails above, You are forever drawing signs in the sky. To focus on this one, these two, is it egocentric? It is so special to us because we in the U.S. get to see it—it has come to us. Thank you!
Photo I took while retreating at Abbey of Gethsemani in KY
St. Augustine said of God’s ways: “We are speaking of God; what marvel, if you do not understand? For if you understand, it is not God.”
“Total solar eclipses typically happen every one to three years somewhere around the globe, but the events are often only visible from Earth’s poles or from the middle of the ocean.” (CBSNews.com)
So, maybe it is a reminder that we are not in charge of light and not in control of moon and sun. Maybe it is a way to remember our sameness and lay aside our differences while we gaze at the wonder of it all.
And though the sun and moon are important, light was brought forth on the first day, before the sun, moon and stars appeared on the fourth. (Gen. 1:14-18) These latter lights were said to bring time—day and night, and for signs and seasons. One to govern the night and one the day, and to separate light from darkness.
But as glorious as it is to observe the lights above, it seems that they are not necessary to eternity. In the mystery of the Word we get a glimpse of something even brighter and more spectacular—worthy of our Communal Gasp of Awe:
“Then I saw ‘a new heaven and a new earth,’ for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away…The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp. The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their splendor into it. On no day will its gates ever be shut, for there will be no night there.” Revelation 21: 1, 23-25, NIV
Yesterday a friend sent me an article about writing. He asked me what I thought of it, and here is my writing in response.
Yesterday’s rainbow from the front porch of our Jessamine farm: The right words, aptly arranged, can turn sun and rain into a rainbow.
I write…
To pray.
To make concrete and visible my thoughts and prayers, which otherwise can seem nebulous and floaty.
To be able to re-collect, re-member.
To organize my life—to do, to list activities, to not forget the details.
To dream and goal.
To communicate with myself or others.
As a ministry—card, text, letter, blog—encouragement, love, concern, admonish, teach.
To express love and concern or disagreement towards resolution with my husband or friends; to prepare for conversation or record a conversation or to think on paper after a conversation.
To record events or dreams or ideas for later reading, remembering or informing family or friends or self.
To be fruitful and multiply; to participate in creation.
Because I like the feel of ink seeping into paper.
Because I like to type.
To leave something behind after I die.
To offer my barbaric yawp to the universe.
To help me figure out riddles—especially through journaling and poetry.
When I write, I make solid the parade of thoughts that are going through my head. But one positive side effect is that the parade slows from fast-paced to pleasurably slower, almost how a stimulant slows an ADHD scattered-ness to a more focused and intelligible state of being.
As a shield and sword for a soldier, so is a pen and words for a writer. The right words, aptly arranged, can turn sun and rain into a rainbow. To be a writer has the potential to be a dealer in life, fire, light, living water, truth, hope, dance, belonging, community, communion, faith, peace, joy, love, and God.
So many writers say they write because they must. To me it is as ordinary as speaking is for a human being. I personally enjoy it more than speaking. I am more true and clear when I write than when I speak.
Wendell Berry’s essay, “Standing by Words,”articulates great respect for words. He states, “We assume, in short, that language is communal, and that its purpose is to tell the truth.” He shows how using words, as in writing, is not a solitary undertaking. I believe in this way writing is God-like—like the perichoretic dance of the Trinity. (Perichoresis being-“a doctrine of the reciprocal inherence of the human and divine natures of Christ in each other.” Merriam-Webster). Writing is a communication with God, myself, the body of Christ, and “the world” simultaneously, when I invite others to read. God and I are always there sharing the words.
Writing is a safe sanctuary for me.
I honor words too much to think of writing as merely desiring to “create meaning in symbolic form.” (Lawrence R. Samuel, “The Psychology of Writing”) Words are powerful—living—more powerful than a symbol in my opinion, when they go from brain to pen to paper to eye to a second brain. Why is Jesus introduced as the Word? How is the Word of God alive? “For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.” (Heb. 4:12)
We can be God’s image bearers when we use words to write—especially when they intertwine as warp and weft with sanctified mature thinking and with God’s own words.
Psalm 19 captures this as well. David knew: “7The law of the LORD is perfect, converting the soul: the testimony of the LORD is sure, making wise the simple.
8The statutes of the LORD are right, rejoicing the heart: the commandment of the LORD is pure, enlightening the eyes.
9The fear of the LORD is clean, enduring for ever: the judgments of the LORD are true and righteous altogether.
10More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold: sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.
11Moreover by them is thy servant warned: and in keeping of them there is great reward.”
God wrote the law on stone. God asked his servants to pass on His commands and history/His-Story, through writing. Our lives are forever changed to the core because of writing—because of words.
Words can also be horrifically used, since their power is great, to harm, hurt, deceive, distort. Words were used to change God & humankind’s path, as the serpent & Adam & Eve know. So using words in and of itself is not noble or sanctified; but it is powerful—it is like fire—to be used for warmth and light or for destruction and deceit.
It is a privilege to write, and to share life through writing and reading with others.
Writing can be a place where it is necessary to remove one’s sandals.
that it was the funnest thing I do in life. (My husband, Hule, mumbled an indignant comment in the background :).)
What was that “thing”? Mowing.
Mown paths on our farm
My love affair with mowing began one summer when I was about 11 or 12. I wanted a 10-speed yellow Schwinn bicycle and my dad said if I mowed the lawn for the summer he would buy it for me. So, week by week that summer, I befriended the delightful smell of cut grass, learned the skill of pushing a purring machine in a straight line, and acquired a taste for this delicious cocktail of exercise, sunshine, aromatherapy and beauty.
Fast forward to 2014 when we moved to our Jessamine farm. We had only a push mower and the uneven terrain, big yard, and my age combined to quell my love for mowing until, low and behold, we were gifted with a lovely John Deere riding lawnmower. I was in heaven!
Besides mowing our yard, we had gotten a grant to plant native grasses, forbes, and flowers on several acres on the back of our property, and I relished preparing the fields with a thorough haircut before planting.
Some of our flowers and vegetation
Once the flowers and grasses came in (Purple Coneflower, Black-eyed Susan, Little Bluestem, Virginia Wild Rye, Tall Dropseed, Partridge Peas, and Illinois Bundle Flower), I began cutting paths through them so we could walk freely in the fields. This was the best! The sun would begin to set and I filled with endorphins and life-enhancing neurotransmitters as I finished up week after week during the summers. Eventually I began expanding the mowing to create what I called “living rooms”—little mowed spaces furnished with chairs or benches and decorated for rest, gathering or solitude, prayer and contemplation. I now have 9 living rooms…& counting:
1. Camp Julian
2. Hazel’s Haven
3. Julianne’s Hideaway
4. Sarah’s Secret Spot
5. Memorial Point
6. Naked Holy Rocks
7. The Forest Trail
8. Matt’s Man Cave
9. The Anchorhold
Sometime in the future I will try and feature each of these on the blog with photos and explanations.
Memorial point, a path nearby, and Hazel’s Haven
This year we added a new mower to our “fleet”. It’s an Exmark riding lawnmower whom I have named Hildegard, Hildy for short, after one of my favorite saints, Hildegard of Bingen. We also have been given a Honda ATV named Ruby, and when the sad time comes that the fields and paths and living rooms are all cut, Ruby and I go tour the grounds together surveying the Gardens.
Sunset at Loretta’s Living Room, Julianne’s Hideaway, and the path of Eden’s Loop
In Eden tending the garden and naming were the tasks given by God to the first humans. We were made for this. We find meaning, hope, and home, finding ourselves and one another, with our Creator, while tending, walking, and soaking in beauty.
Paths
I encourage you today, to go find Eden, observe place and nature long enough to name, find our Creator in an outdoor living room and chat, discover fun and meaning while tending the beauty of your place and paths.
The Anchorhold, Maggie’s grave at Memorial Point, and a Harvest Moon coming up at the end of a satisfying mow.
I find myself praying today for a friend’s imminent childbirth. Giving birth is such a thin place, where we join in creation and fall simultaneously. It’s a miraculous space: liminal—in-between. The father, mother, and child, pass through a limen—a doorway—from unknown to known and from known to unknown. There is a change in “I am-ness” to each participant—even for every sibling and every grandparent.
When my first grandchild was born, I stood at the head of the bed and experienced the miracle unfolding. I saw my dear daughter rock in pain with contractions and reach in joy for her new writhing, crying, little human-gift. I observed the furrowed brow, outstretched hand, and deep concern of my son-in-law at bedside; then the outrageous excitement of seeing the emergence from dark to light of his firstborn, Hazel—with a holy hush followed by one last push.
When my second grandchild, Julian, was born, I stayed at home with Hazel. It was a different kind of vigil—from far away. It was hard not being present and I was grateful to God and His sure presence with me and with my daughter simultaneously, and His constant bent-ear, listening for our intercessions and supplications. I wrestled with the thought that my daughter would need to struggle with pain, maybe blood, and difficulty for this birth, and I recalled the reason that the Bible gives to aid in answering all, no, most, of my questions.
The night before Julian’s entrance, I birthed the following thoughts. I pray they might help you or your loved one in grappling with, and entering past the veil into, this angel-filled, Trinity-immersed, Cloud of unknowing which we encounter at the emergence of every new life…if we have eyes to see.
Julian’s Exodus
And now
As we turn toward this event
This liminal passage—
A new life liminal passage—
We remember that You Lord, are a Parent
A Father and “Mother” to a boy, Adam and girl, Eve
Formed long ago in the womb of your garden,
“born” into your household.
And even before that
(really not before, but always)
Your only Son—begotten, not made—of one Being with You.
But there came a fall—
Jack and Jill tumbled
And pain in childbirth came,
Not the original plan,
But a consequence.
So now we embark on a new in-between space
One that, despite our knowledge and advancements, will likely bring some
Pain
Squeezing
Peril
Need
Perhaps groaning.
“Like the pains of childbirth,” we often say:
A groaning of earth in an Eve-like form.
We come here through remembering also that you overshadowed blessed Mary—
Dripping in Eve-ness—
To bring hope and healing
To bring back full joy and to ease the pain of Eden’s losses.
You sent shepherds and wise men for the baby shower.
You watched as the wet, crying and cooing boy emerged from the nine-month hiddenness.
You sent angels to say,
“Do not be afraid!”
You said, “My peace I give to you.”
And, “I will never leave you or forsake you.”
And so we pray to You—
Who are a Father
And a Son
And have a maternal heart
And are a great Physician
And a Summoner of angels.
We look to You
To bring the Light –Da la Luz!
Of Your presence
Your face
Your touch
Your attention.
We ask for safety for all during labor and journey through the underwater tangles, the unknown, the Red Sea’s partings, little Julian’s exodus into this world.
We look to You.
We trust in Your great love,
In Your deep knowing—conocimiento—that is owned by a Parent’s heart and soul and body.
In Your Son Jesus’, name,
Amen
[i] Jesus is the bridegroom and the church is His bride.
[ii] Many places in the Bible God is portrayed as having motherly affection and care:
God: “As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you; you shall be comforted in Jerusalem.” Is. 66:13
God: “Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.” Is. 49:15
God: “For a long time I have held my peace, I have kept myself still and restrained myself, now I will cry out like a woman in labor, I will gasp and pant.” Is. 42:14
Jesus said, “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing.” Matt. 23:37 and Luke 13:34
Not all of us–the outsides stay whether they want to or not.
The insides stone up, wall up, shut down.
They’re like Addison…”What the…?” or less sophisticated, “Ouch!”
When or whether we reappear is up for grabs. Sometimes the healing necessitates, or dictates, staying inside the shell. Changing routine, changing bandages, changing hope–they all cost and our insides pay a high price–often more than what is in the wallet.
But God is there. And He has the extra we need. We need only ask…if we can keep from walling up on Him.
There are places, spaces, where it is easier to open to Him:
walking the woods or pasture,
standing near a mossy log,
counting dew drops on soft plant leaves,
revisiting a field full of memories,
smelling mist, hearing trees, admiring all He has made.
Our Jessamine Farm 