HEARTLAND HOMECOMING 

Miles travelled on a ribbon of highway

surrounded by fields larger than the river town we called home.

Brown earth with ribbons of green

stretching as far as the eye can see

encircling an island of buildings

a house, a barn, some outbuildings of varied colors

and a collection of tin-man heads and hats

in which the fruit of the fields will be gathered.

At our destination, from the kitchen window

we spot something out of place:

a calf wanders in the middle of the road

while its mother, aunts and cousins

graze nearby on the right side of the fence.

“This has happened before. We told an old man about it

and he said, ‘It happens all the time.

Don’t worry! it will crawl back under the fence.’”

This calf didn’t get the memo.

The doorbell rings. There stands a young girl.

“Someone’s cow is in the middle of the road

but nobody answered the door at the farmhouse.”

My daughter puts on her barn boots.

“Cover me,” she says heading for the road.

The calf leaves the road running in a field

still on the wrong side of the fence.

Careful not to step on two inch corn poking up from the earth

we attempt to herd the wayward critter

toward the low-voltage rope with its family waiting on the other.

Grasping the handle of the wire--a space is opened

through which the little one might run toward reunion.

Despite circuitous steps to urge a proper course

the calf is not buying it.

Instead it heads back for the road.

Just then the mini herd of three big and two small ones

make for the space I’ve opened

causing me to hastily put the wire/rope back in place

after untangling it from around my feet.

Thank God for low voltage!

My daughter managed to encourage the wee beast

up the driveway and into the farmyard

where it somehow got back together with its mama.

Our cattle drive complete we returned to the homestead,

to shed our muddy boots

and lift a glass in celebration, as over a hearty meal

we regaled our spouses with tales of the adventure.

The sun set in the West

as we prepared for a night’s rest

aware that “love your neighbor”

sometimes involves getting your boots dirty.

 

Given, Taken, Blessed

“…the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”[i]

Words attributed to Job after a series of world-changing losses

Words which popped into my head as I sat in my summer morning spot

in the distance a hazy western sky

in the foreground a Red Maple tree

that requires yearly trimming to stem its insistence

on overhanging porch and roof.

Prominent in my line of sight is the scar

of some previous year’s pruning

to eliminate a branch grown too close to my Adirondack perch

obscuring my view or the yard and road and growing woodlot beyond.

Two inches from the silver dollar sized scar

a branch lifts heavenward.

Three inches more and a tiny, tender, slender stem has sprouted

yielding three more stems smaller still

each with a five-lobed deep red leaf.

An ending and a beginning side by side--

a message received

at the end of a week marked by endings

and the celebration of beginnings,

in the counting of blessings

delivered through it all.

Standing beside a coffin

to speak words of appreciation to a widow and a daughter,

telling grandchildren of “good trouble” shared across the years

bearing witness to Resurrection’s promises--

an ending and beginning side by side.

Sitting after sunset

surrounded by friends enjoying a last (for now) evening

eating, drinking, and making merry

sharing stories filled with love and laugher, trial and triumph

Sadness and joy mix

as a moving van will separate my many miles.

New adventures await those who go and those who remain.

Endings and beginnings.

Blessed Friendships.

“Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

---

[i] Job 1. 21                                                                                                                                                        

Tree Things on My Mind 

One – When I retired as a pastor after 41 years I changed my occupational status to “Tree farmer.”  Our 4.2 acres in the Endless Mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania provides me with plenty of justification for that title.  A number of years ago during a gathering of four generations of our family, we planted two oak trees, one for each firstborns of the fourth generation. Over time we have added several more including one for each of the next little ones to join the family and two to mark the final resting place of our beloved Black Labs.  There’s one we dug up as a seedling from the edge of a friend’s pasture and another imported from a daughter’s back yard.  There are a couple that we transplanted from spots where squirrels had buried acorns along the fence in the Manse in West Pittston.  Most of them hold onto their leaves all winter before gradually letting them go as one of the first signs of Spring.  Ever so slowly the buds appear and begin to open, revealing tiny, tender leaves. It is awe inspiring to watch them all grow.

Two -  A dozen years ago we read in the local newspaper that the county extension office was taking orders for all kinds of trees, shrubs and plants at reasonable prices.  We sent in our order for twenty Norway Spruce trees.  We planned to plant them along one part of our property line as a buffer between a field and some woods owned by the Tennessee Gas Pipeline.  On an April Saturday morning, having heard that one of my nearest and dearest friends had died in the night, I drove my pick-up truck with tears in my eyes to the county garage in Montrose to ready to fill the bed with our future forest.  After waiting in line I stepped up and gave my name to the smiling volunteer at the table.  She quickly turned and went into the garage bay behind her and returned with a plastic grocery bag with twenty seedlings. Each seedling was a single green stalk, 18 inches long.  With the bag stashed on the floor behind my seat, I drove back to Paddleberry Farms giggling at the size of my cargo.  Two days later, as I contem-plated what I would say in the Sermon to be preached at my friend’s funeral, I dug twenty tiny holes and planted the first row of what we lovingly call the McSwegin Rational Forest.  Over the next several years I repeated the Saturday journey to Montrose and the Monday planting ritual. Those seedlings are now nearly 18 feet high and provide nesting and resting spots for our feathered neighbors.  Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall, these trees point heavenward and lift our spirits. 

Three -  Of course when it comes to trees, what grows up must come down.  Windstorms prune branches and call for a game of pick-up-sticks.  The dreaded Emerald Ash Borers have tunneled        beneath the bark of towering Ash trees and literally sucked the life out of them.  Insect cousins have done the same to some of our other species of evergreens.  We’ve stimulated the economy by hiring young men to take down dead Ash trees or help me split and stack firewood.  I’ve dropped a few of the needleless pines and spruces, bucked them into fireplace length and piled them by the edge of our road with a “Free Campfire Wood” sign.  Within days, sometimes just hours, the pile finds its way to a new home.  In the fall of 2018 a windstorm dropped some Scotch Pines at the far corner of what one granddaughter calls the forest.  They landed on the trail I use to snowshoe in winter and walk the rest of the year.  One of them provided a high tunnel supported by branches driven into the ground as it fell.  At Thanksgiving that year my son-in-law cleared some of it away, but chose not to try and cut over our heads, since one could easily walk underneath.  Gradually gravity took its toll and the top of the tunnel got closer and closer to the ground, so that earlier this week I could no longer ride under it without doing the limbo on my mower.  Time to get the chainsaw!  Yesterday all went well as I cut off some of the larger limbs to gain access to what I hoped would be the first cut of the trunk.  Gambling that the upper branches would still provide enough support, I forged ahead.  First cut, part way through; second to slice out a wedge; before I could pull out the weight shifted, pinching the saw in place. 

Shut off engine. Study the situation caused by impatience.  Plot a new course. Retrieve a 4x4 timber and my father’s old house jack from the garage.  Carefully jack the trunk up an inch or two relieving the pressure. Pull out the wedge and the saw.  Restart the engine; with the wedge gone, finish the cut. Make a few more cuts; remove the jack and timber; slice a few more pieces.  

Shut down saw; pile logs to the side. Gather up all the equipment, start up the Quad, and drive through the gap and back to the garage.  The path is clear and there’s one more item crossed off  to-do list.  The tree farmer, having solved a problem of his own making, gave thanks for the strength and persistence to see a task through with the help of an ancient house jack kept because he might need it one day.  

 The Multifaceted Maternal Heart 

Speaking from the outside as an astounded observer
not having the benefit of insider information
I stand in awe of the strength and elasticity
exhibited in that magnificent marvel of the
multifaceted maternal heart which “bears all things,
believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

Eve’s joy outweighed the pangs of childbearing
as she watched her boys grow to manhood
until overshadowed by the unspeakable pain
brought about by bloodshed in un-brotherly rage.
Such grief manifests repeatedly in mother’s hearts today,
resilient voices raised to demand: “This must end!”

Sarah’s Laughter led to Hagar’s tears,
the sight of happy playmates fomenting fears,
unleashing a separate and most unequal future.
Pray and work so the desperate cries of refugee mothers
result in wells to refresh parched palates in the world now
and a table is spread so all may enjoy the earth’s bounty.

Hannah’s prayers from a bruised and broken heart
heard on high inspired a sacrificial gift of gratitude-
providing a leader who spoke truth to power.
With trusting heart the nameless widow fed Elijah,
sat bedside vigil with a son given up for dead-
erupted in praise as her son lived to see another sunrise.

From the quiet pondering of mother Mary beside the manger
to the bold request of the Thunder Brother’s mother;
From the wailing heard over cradles in Egypt and Bethlehem
to the clever persistence of a Gentile mother seeking her daughter’s healing;
In the steady instruction of Lois and Eunice and the generous stitches of Dorcas,
the many of faces of love are seen and heard and felt deeply.

Down through the ages, we who are children of God
have been blessed by those who birthed us and burped us,
wiped us clean, dried our tears, and trained us in the way we should go.
Whether the maternal heart beats by birth, by adoption, or by marriage
we are who we are thanks to pains endured, lessons shared, forgiveness offered
prayers prayed, and sacrifices made, all wrapped up in a gift called love.

(c) 2021

 

Eye Follows Ear

Eye follows ear

until the red uniform of the Cardinal

comes into focus

perched on a branch

amid buds about to burst.

Such a happy song it sings

Eye follows ear

until the bop-bop-bop of the Woodpecker

is narrowed to

the top of the dead tree

where lounging larvae become its feast.

Such a haunting sound it makes.

Eye follows ear

until bouncing boy in trampoline

emits a joyful giggle

while he and his Dad

launch heavenward holding hands

Such a happy howl is heard.

Eye follows ear

until the scratch-scratch-scratch of the rake

removes a winter blanket

of leaves and debris

revealing soil the garden will grow.

Such a hopeful scene to behold.

Eye follows ear

until the sound through an open door

is traced to voices

lifted in praise

of the Bringer of all spring’s blessings

Such a holy sound it is.

(c) 2021