Hope and Irises

 

I'm always running across quotes in books that I like. I may jot them down. Or I take a photo of them. Most of the time, I don't find a way to use them. It's kind of like those recipes I see on Facebook or in blogs that I print ... then promptly bury in a "might make someday pile" on my kitchen counter.

But this one from Charles Martin's book, The Last Exchange, recently rose to the surface again:

I've been some places where there is no hope, and yet somehow, it swims through the cracks. Rises to the surface. I've found hope staring me in the face when reason screamed I had none.. ... Not in all of human history has hope ever been laid to rest. When we breathe in, it's the stuff that expands our lungs. It's the reason we're not just dust. ... If you press me, love is what makes us who we are. Hope is how we express us. Hope is love with legs. 

from The Last Exchange by Charles Martin

 

 

Maybe blooming iris are like hope, too. Earlier this month, the bulbs were tightly closed. There was little hint of the blossom that would later unfurl from the tight, cocoon-shaped bulbs. 

 

 

But, like a butterfly breaking through a chrysalis and unfurling its wings, the iris' colorful petals also broke forth into a riot of purple framing our front doorstep and the mailbox. It's kind of like hope in the book quote, isn't it? The bloom breaks through the cracks and arrives at the surface - just like hope.

 

This year has seemed a particularly good year for iris. As I've mentioned before, they always remind me of my Grandma Neelly. She had purple iris outside her kitchen windows.  

 

She had a much better green thumb than I do. In fact, Randy is the reason we have anything growing in our yard and garden. But even if I don't carry her strong gardening gene, I still imagine her standing at the kitchen window, washing dishes and seeing the purple iris through the panes. They must have given her joy and hope...

just like seeing the iris surrounding our country road mailbox brings a smile as I arrive home.

And I feel the span across time connecting me to their old farm house and sweet memories of homemade noodles, green apple pie, a plastic candy dish, a manual typewriter, sugar-and-milk-laden coffee at breakfast time, Lassie and The Wonderful World of Disney with Grandpa Neelly, gathering eggs from the chicken house and so much more.

It's like a mental bouquet of love and hope. And even though the iris will soon be gone for the year, there remains the hope for next year ... and an invitation to say thank you.

It doesn’t have to be the blue iris

it could be weeds in a vacant lot,

 or a few small stones;

 just pay attention, 

then patch a few words together

 and don’t try to make them elaborate,

 this isn’t a contest

 but the doorway into thanks, 

and a silence in which another voice may speak.

Praying, by Mary Oliver

Easter People

God's fingerprints are scattered across all His creation. They seem particularly abundant in springtime, as the world awakes from its winter nap. 

This week, I read a devotional from the United Methodist Church, giving me new ways of looking at the natural spring wonders all around me. It seemed particularly apt this Holy Week. As I read it, I was thinking of photos in my collection that I could gather to illustrate God's creation.

But even as I was writing this on Tuesday, the news was full of warnings. There was "catastrophic" fire danger forecast because of high winds and low humidity. The sky outside was again full of dirt. Later in the day, our area was on a line for potential severe weather, including large hail and possible tornadoes. (The severe weather missed us, but, unfortunately, so did the rain.)

This came just after a beautiful day when the wind was light, the sun was shining and the winter sweatshirt could get tossed aside.

And I realized that's kind of like the rolling emotions of Holy Week. 

I was playing the piano for the actual processional, but I got a "before" photo!

We'd all love the "Hosanna!" of Palm Sunday to last all week, wouldn't we? 

Cute kids, palm branches, big smiles? It's easy to feel the exuberance of the day. 

Even the tree outside the church seemed to be shouting "Hosanna!" on Palm Sunday.

 

It would be easier to just skip the hard stuff, right? That's human nature, after all.

But in the midst of this celebration, I've also been practicing the piano solos I will play for the community Good Friday service, which our church is hosting this year. The haunting minor chords of "What Wondrous Love Is This?" and the mournful melody of "Go to Dark Gethsemane" have quietly drowned out the exuberance of "Hosanna! Loud Hosannas!" which I played for prelude last week.

Not much seems "good" about Good Friday or Maundy Thursday, does it? Those are the days when Christ is betrayed and the dark shadows fall over the earth as the Son of God hangs from a cross, taking on my sins and those of the world. 

 

We know that it is our sins that nailed His hands and feet to the cross. It is we who are responsible for Jesus' suffering.

And yet, we also know the "rest of the story." We know that on Easter Sunday, we will celebrate a much brighter day, a day when Jesus fulfills the prophecy of old, and an angel proclaims:

The only way to see the beauty of a stained glass window
is if light shines through it.

"Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; He has risen from the dead."

Matthew 28: 5-6

And because we know the rest of the story, we can look forward to Easter Sunday, even on the dark days of this Holy Week. 

And, so even in the midst of my contemplation of Christ's sacrifice, I can return to the devotional about being an Easter people.

I can see it in the robins.  The robin, a very common bird in the U.S., has a red breast and a legend to explain it. It's said that a gray robin flew to Christ's crown of thorns to draw out a thorn, and when it did, a drop of Christ's blood fell on its breast, leaving a stain forevermore.

I can see it in the bees that spread the pollen and make flowers grow. The honey these creatures create is a biblical symbol of God's favor. The Torah agrees, for it describes God's promised land again and again as "flowing with milk and honey."

 

I can see the promise in flowers.

Long considered a symbol of hope and new life, the daffodil is one of the blooms most often connected to the Resurrection. Tradition says that giving a gift of daffodils will ensure happiness for the receiver. 

Tulips can also represent our Easter story. In the fall, the bulb is buried in the soil. But, come spring, the flower overcomes the darkness and bursts forth with new life. 

The flowering shrub known as the forsythia can also be called the Easter tree: When its spidery branches are moving with the wind, they seem to be arms waving in praise of the season. 

 

According to tradition, forsythia means anticipation—an appropriate companion word for Resurrection.

The traditions that developed around these spring symbols helped explain the concept that God in the flesh took on death and came back to tell us there is life on the other side. The Council at Nicaea in 325 AD gave the Church a revised creed. The last line reads:

 "We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come."

As Easter people, we don't have to look further than spring for an exclamation point to that affirmation. 

Even as I've been practicing the piano solos for Good Friday, I've also been playing my prelude for Easter Sunday morning, "Christ Arose!" It's probably my favorite Easter hymn, beating out "Christ the Lord Is Risen Today." 

Perhaps it's because it starts with the message, "Low in the grave He lay" and ends with the soaring, "He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!" (Too often, pastors don't choose that song. My family know that if it doesn't get sung at the Easter morning worship service, they'll be hearing it in the car on the way home. From the time I was a little girl at Byers Methodist Church, it's been a centerpiece to Easter for me. I was thrilled to see Pastor Kim chose it for this Easter Sunday!)

As we continue to walk our way toward that "Hallelujah!" I pray for eyes to be open to see God's fingerprints in my life and the world around me. 

(The symbol information is from a UMC.org devotional written by Mark Price is Minister of Spiritual Formation and Facilities Manager at Christ United Methodist Church in Franklin, Tennessee).

***

This Easter will be the first to celebrate in person in TWO years, due to the Covid-19 pandemic. And just like finding hope in the midst of darkness, one of my friends, Linda, organized a way to share the Easter message in a non-traditional way through YouTube back in 2020.  I was one of those who provided a video during that time. I combined a vocal solo with some of my photography. I've shared the link below, if you're interested. I'm singing this song for the Good Friday service this week, this time, accompanied by Linda and in person. Thanks be to God!

Diametrically Opposed

 

It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.

Andre Lorde

I love staying connected with people via Facebook. It's a way to interact with people from my past and present in a way that wouldn't be possible from a solitary dirt road in south central Kansas.

But a friend and I were talking on Tuesday about the contentiousness we also witness on Facebook. There are people who feel strongly about lots of things - whether it's the current occupant of the White House and his second in command (yay or nay)... Covid and vaccines (yay or nay) ... racism ... the thin blue line. The list - and the "sides" - go on and on.

Of course, it's the beauty of America that we can disagree - even with our own government. But my friend and I were lamenting the seeming inability to objectively listen to another's point of view ... and then perhaps think about something in a new way.

I don't understand the animosity often witnessed if a Facebook friend or acquaintance disagrees with a post - or with a commenter who has a different opinion than the one they just shared. Most often, I mutter an opinion under my breath and then scroll on by. But there are plenty of people who will share their opinion ...and share it loudly and clearly and often.

 

 

I thought about this inflexibility as I wandered around my farmhouse yard this week. On Monday afternoon, I ventured out to take photos of the blooms that punctuated our yard with springtime color.

 

 The purple and white lilacs were just beginning to bloom.

Most were still tightly holding onto their blooms in their buds, but a few were peeking out to enjoy the sunshine.

 

Our redbud tree lifted its "arms" toward the bright blue sky. 

Colorful tulips were poised to greet any guests who might arrive at our front door ... and give us joy in the meantime.

 

I knew that if the weather forecasters were right, the overnight hours might spell a premature end to the riot of spring color.

 

My pear trees loaded with bountiful blooms would likely be wearing a white "sweater" by morning. 

 

And they were.

 

But the beauty was still there. I had an 8:30 AM district church meeting via Zoom, so I hurried with my radio report and blog post so I could venture outside to snap a few photos before the snow melted away with the forecasted sunshine. 

 

 

There was plenty of beauty in the pre-snow and post-snow landscapes. (I can find the beauty as long as it didn't hurt the wheat crop either Tuesday or Wednesday morning with the dip of the thermometer below freezing.)

 

But, the snow-covered blooms were undeniably pretty - even if it caused me to lament a possible outcome for my pear crop and the wheat.

And it again made me think about looking at things from a different perspective. 

 

We don't get harmony when everybody sings the same note. Only notes that are different can harmonize. The same is true with people.

Steve Goodier

 

As an amateur musician, this quote rang true for me (so to speak). I love hearing harmony. When I'm singing along to the radio in the car, I often harmonize with the singer. A few weeks ago, during a Palm Sunday service, I led the congregational singing from the lectern. It had been a year since the community's ministerial alliance had gathered for a joint service. The wave of four-part harmony coming toward me from congregation members from several different churches singing "All Glory, Laud & Honor" literally gave me goosebumps. 

 

Those congregations don't have the same views about every aspect of theology and polity. But you sure couldn't tell that as we sang those familiar songs in harmony.

It's something for me to ponder. I know it's a simplistic analogy. But maybe it's a start.

I Know A Green Cathedral

I still know the first few phrases of the first vocal solo I ever sang for a music festival. It was "The Green Cathedral." It was my 7th grade year at Skyline Schools, and I remember standing by the piano in the music room with Mr. Bob White, practicing over and over again, trying to perfect the performance before the music festival.

These days, I sometimes can't remember why I walked from one room to the other without retracing my steps and trying again. But the words to that long-ago solo were among the first I remembered as Randy and I stepped into the light and shadows of an abandoned farmstead.

"I know a green cathedral, 

a shadowed forest shrine.

Where leaves in love join hands above 

and arch your prayer and mine."

It might not be a forest in the middle of the Kansas plains. But the Dame's rocket flowers were a siren call stretching far into the shelterbelt and dotting the blanket of green underfoot and overhead with a splash of lavender.

That day, we had been driving by at 55 MPH on our way back home. But the splash of purple at the side of the road had me asking Randy to turn around.

We've been to this spot on other springtime afternoons. But never do I remember the flowers being so prolific and magical.

True confessions: I didn't remember all the words to the song without Googling them. (And, by the way, isn't that reference tool a major upgrade from the old card catalog? After all, it was probably 50 years ago or so.)

So, "The Green Cathedral" has joined the never-ending sound track of my mind.

"Memories, light the corner of my mind. Misty, water-colored memories
Of the way we were."

Oops ... wrong song.

"The Green Cathedral" 

Verse by Gordon Johnstone

 

I know a green cathedral, a shadowed forest shrine,

 Where leaves in love join hands above

 and arch your prayer and mine;

Within its cool depths sacred, the priestly cedar sighs,

 And the fir and pine lift arms divine unto the pure blue skies

In my dear green cathedral there is a flowered seat,

Birdhouse at Sterling golf course, photo taken the same day.

 And choir loft in branched croft, 

 where songs of bird hymns sweet;

 

 And I like to dream at evening, 

when the stars its arches light,

That my Lord and God treads its hallowed sod, 

In the cool calm peace of night.