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.

Bloom Where You're Planted

My secret garden isn't so secret anymore. And that's all right with me.

For the past few years, I've written about and shared photos of irises that bloom along the Zenith Road. That's the blacktop road that takes us part of the way home, so it's as familiar as the back of my hand.

They are just a hop, skip and a jump away from the co-op elevator at Zenith, where we haul our grain. (You can see the elevator on the horizon in the photo below.)

This year, one of my friends asked me in late April, "Are the irises blooming yet?" At the time, they weren't. But they are now. She grew up in the neighborhood, so she can claim them, too.

 

Since we discovered them blooming under the shadows of old cottonwoods, we've wondered who planted them. There's not a stone foundation there.

But Randy noticed some old pipe sticking out of the ground this year. So these purple blooms may have bordered a gate or walkway toward a long-forgotten farmstead.

The ground where they bloom is for sale. I hope the new buyer keeps them around.

These days, the irises are flanked by a CRP field, the dry, brown grasses of winter a sharp contrast to the brilliant colors and soft petals that form the old-fashioned spring flowers.

 

As we examined them more closely, we noticed several of the stems devoid of their blooms. They were likely food for the deer that flash in and out of the same trees and have been the source of more than one close call on our Zenith Road travels. 

Irises remind me of my Grandma Neelly, who had them in her backyard. You could see them from her kitchen window, where she cleaned up the dishes after poaching eggs for breakfast or serving Sunday's homemade chicken and noodles after church, followed by her light and sweet angel food cake. Seeing irises stirs up those memories as deftly as Grandma stirred up her rhubarb pies each spring.

There's another hidden patch of irises near the Ninnescah Pasture. With some poison oak and weeds camouflaging them, they aren't as pretty. And, just like with the Zenith irises, you have to know where to look.

As we left the pasture after our fishing trip last week, we drove by the small patch and found them blooming again.

They weren't the only "secret garden" we found on our way home. A field of canola bloomed vibrant yellow against an overcast blue sky.

The field is nestled at the end of a dead-end road where we had to turn left or right. Instead, we parked the pickup and trailer and walked up an old field road to get a close-up look. Beauty is all around us, there for the taking.

Nature gives us lots of reminders to bloom where you're planted. 

A Reminder at Dawn

A whisper of color lightened the dawn sky as I filled my coffee cup. It reminded me of a Chris Tomlin song I'd heard on K-LOVE.

Morning, I see You in the sunrise every morning
It's like a picture that You've painted for me
A love letter in the sky

Nobody Loves Me Like You by Chris Tomlin

During Lent, Pastor Nate has been preaching a sermon series, Reconnecting with an Unhurried God. I admit it: Too often, I grab my cup of coffee and march down the stairs to my office to start the work day.

But yesterday morning, I took time to peruse God's "love letter in the sky." So I drove to the sunrise tree. Then, as the sky shifted for the grand reveal at sunrise, I stood in the cool breeze, with the birds singing, and the sky changing moment by moment. And I was again reminded of that call to an unhurried life during this season of Lent.

Last Sunday, Pastor Nate left us with this benediction:

Blessing for the Unhurried Life

May you notice creation around you

and how effortlessly it passes the time.

May you see the passing of time

as a friend, with all its fast and slow.

May you find delight

in the season of “right now.”

And may you be reacquainted each day

with an unhurried God

who is calling you to dive deeply into love.

Later in the morning, Randy and I walked down our dirt road. The fragrance of blooming shrubs decorating the ditches filled the air with fragrance.

Today, winter is set to give a final hurrah ... or what we hope is its last gasp.

So the blooms on the trees and the tender spring flowers will likely fall victim to the freezing temperatures that blasted into the state with a northern wind overnight.

You do not ask us to go back to some yesteryear,

but to take time to smell the roses, savor the twilight, bask in the sun.

We are your children, created to flourish along with all of creation.

From Reconnecting with an Unhurried God

So, I will enjoy the blossoms as they bloom.

 

And I'll celebrate the beauty that is there for the taking, if only I invest the time to see it.

It's a reminder to treasure the small blessings every day.

 Check out this song by Chris Tomlin.

The Secret Garden

And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed,

and every morning revealed new miracles.

Frances Hodgson Burnett from The Secret Garden

It's a secret garden hiding in plain sight. And it's in bloom yet again.

The Zenith Road is our thoroughfare to Stafford and home again. Early in our marriage, we lived in a house right along the road. But until four years ago, we didn't realize there were irises blooming under a grove of cottonwood trees, less than half a mile from that house. 

It was my sharp-eyed husband who first saw them. Every May since then, we subtly slow down as we approach the canopy of cottonwoods, glancing to the west to see if the blooms are back again.

It's like a surprise party each time they return.

As I parked in an old driveway and got out of the car, a pheasant squawked and flew away when I disturbed his afternoon nap. He startled me as much as I did him. After that, there was only the rustle of cottonwood leaves in the wind, accompanied by a bass line of tires slapping the pavement of U.S. Highway 50 only a half mile away.

Every year, I think about who might have planted this bed of irises. There's no concrete foundation, marking where a farmhouse might have been. The field to the west has long been in CRP, the brown grasses of winter still holding on while springtime blooms in this secret garden.

I stopped again as the sun was setting one day last week. The only other witnesses were swarms of mosquitoes who buzzed in my ears and came in for a landing.

Soon, the irises will fade again like the setting sun. But these blooms offer a lesson in appreciating life in the moment.

Last fall, Randy planted irises around our mailbox and near our front door. He knows that purple irises remind me of my Grandma Neelly's backyard, and, more importantly, evoke memories of my childhood. Not many of the irises bloomed this first spring. But to me, he couldn't have offered a more thoughtful gift.

Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks to us, and the art of life is to get the message. 

–Malcolm Muggeridge, journalist