A Game of Uncovered Stones

 There is a large flower bed bordered by stones at the top and to the side of my driveway. Flower bed is a terrible misnomer, as it features one gardenia bush that nearly died elsewhere, 3 amaryllis bulbs, and a rather awkward blueberry bush. Mostly it’s a barren landscape waiting for a genius greater than mine to take it in hand and make it beautiful. 

The stones bordering the bed are merely quartz rocks, faintly pink and oddly but pleasingly shaped, culled from the woods behind our neighbors home. With their permission, of course. There’s nothing special about these rocks, and for quite a while this fall they’ve been buried in inches of leaf litter and pine straw. As there isn’t much to showcase in the mostly empty flower bed, the rocks perform their function just as well beneath as above the foliage. 

Warm December days have the gardener in me itching to be outside, so this afternoon I unspooled the extension cords and started the leaf blower, rediscovering all manner of landmarks such as the driveway, the front porch, and the quartz border. Later in the afternoon, after putting away the tools and cozying in with a cup of chai and a Chesterton essay, I looked out the window and spotted my son and his friend walking along those stones. Those same stones that have been there for years, bordering that barren bed, signifying nothing. While I thought I was tidying up, I was actually recreating the landscape of neighborhood play. Instantly, a new path was forged, ready to be woven into whatever game was afoot. (This afternoon, dreadfully, I believe it involved zombies, complete with wounds crafted with Scotch tape and Crayola markers. Red. Of course.)

Suburban moms with lackluster landscaping prowess aren’t the only ones who put stones to use. God’s people did, too, at His direction. Several times in the books chronicling the early history of God’s chosen people you see stones raised or stacked or carted from one place to another specifically as a reminder to future generations of current grace. While I can walk outside and say to my son, “Remember the day we tromped through the woods and hauled out the rocks?” Israelite mothers and grandmothers would stand by the Jordan and say, “Remember the day we crossed over?” A question pregnant with the past 40 years of wilderness wandering and present life in the Promised Land. Israelite parents were commanded to teach their children about the Lord and His great deeds all day, every day. Those stones were tangible reminders of those deeds year in, year out. 

I don’t see many houses of God’s people with heaps of stones outside as a reminder of His faithfulness. Our Rock became flesh and dwelt among us, and we remember Him with the grace of communion, with each other and with Him. Every time believers take the meal together, we are telling each other and our children to remember. Remember His past faithfulness. Remember His promise that He is coming again. Remember. Remember. 

Uncover the stones. Reforge the paths. Christmas is coming. Follow the stones as the shepherds and wise men followed the star and find the King. 

When Glory Bows Your Head

 Heat and humidity have hit my state with a one-two punch this week, after a glorious stretch of spring through April and May. That used to mean long days of frizzy hair (perhaps frizzy days of long hair?) and avoidance of outside activity, but in my new paradigm it means growing season. Each day, almost each hour, my garden is stretching and changing. If I could park myself in a chair and just sit, I'm pretty sure I could watch my bean vines grow. As it is, I make frequent trips to the garden and marvel as tightly wound tendrils slip and twist upward from ankle, to waist, to shoulder, until finally I'm craning my neck to check for blooms. The same basic story is true almost everywhere I turn. Verdant height, midday shade beneath the cooling leaves as I hunt for the babiest of fruits, tipped with inviting yellow blossoms, luring the pollinators to that life-changing sip.

I've said before that a garden is good for my theology. I think of life-giving death as I watch strong, tender leaves push up through dirt and mulch. The gladiolus stalks that have toppled haphazardly in other beds are straight at church spires in their new location, and I remember that good soil and well-fed roots produce the best fruit. The morning glory vines are as curious as a toddler, reaching out to explore in every direction and must constantly be trained to trail upward and grow in safety. Boundaries are blessings. Pea vines untended during vacation topple under the very lushness of their being and the weight of their pods. The fruitful vine needs the branch for support and sustenance. 

Today it's the sunflowers that have caught me. Many of the usually sunward faces are bent toward earth from rain and weight. And glory. In the case of the plants, they are wonderfully healthy and riotously productive. I look forward to all the bouquets I'll be giving away. But every time it rains, we lose a bunch of them. One stalk, laden with six current blooms and as many more buds will simply snap. Or a stalk with only a few blooms will lean over, bowed beyond strength to straighten again. Those glorious ruffled reflectors of the sun face downward, shining on those that walk beneath them. It's almost as though the flowers do their best to kneel in joyful prayer, for their attitude is certainly not one of dejection or grief. How could such a magnificent part of creation, even in brokenness, be truly broken? It's the glory that weighs them down.

And I? Am I not also a glorious part of creation? When rain and weight lower my head, is it not with the glory of God's goodness, sovereignty, providence, and promise? Should I not bow in joy and thankfulness? Nothing comes to my life that does not first pass through His hands. The rain. The sun. The heat. The snapping stalk. No pain is not a blessing when it comes from my Father. 

And so, from my sunflowers, I learn to be content.