Tiptoeing Through the Tulips

If your eyes are good, your whole body will be full of light.  But if your eyes are bad, your whole body will be full of darkness.  Matthew 6:22-23a

I’m obsessed with my garden.  Really, every single morning I don a bathrobe, pour a cup of coffee, and spend a minimum of a half of an hour creeping through my yard smiling at the Rocky Mountain Honeysuckle, tickling open the Iceland Poppies, whispering sweet nothings over the Mexican Primrose.  Even before the spring flowers actually began their wild trill of color, I would go out there to gloat and grin and pray health into those almost-flowers- the tiny buds that would be.  And then I would start my day.  And then I would pull out my journal and bible and grouch about how so-and-so really needed to get their act together and fuss about this-and-that worrisome behavior and should I confront him-or-her.

Every now and then in the middle of my devotion, my eye would catch some previously-unseen splash of color in the yard.  I would stop everything, leap out of my chair, and race over to clap my hands and commence my own personal version of a highland fling to celebrate the growth.  And then.

And then I felt this slight whispering.  This whispering that said, let this garden be a lesson in how to love.  In how to live.  I recognize that when it comes to my garden, my eyes are full of light and I see only good things.  CLEARLY my garden is at least ten years out from making the Better Home and Gardens centerfold, but I see only the potential for beauty- the little half-centimeter growths that could possibly amount to a bud, that could possibly unfurl into a flower. 

But when it comes to people, my eyesight tends to be bad and sometimes I only see darkness.  I am quick to identify flaws in the landscape, quick to point out miniscule disappointments or instances of poor judgment.  What would my day be if I allowed God to give me a vigorous face-wash so that I only focus on the beauty in people’s lives, if I were to spend my waking moments singing and strutting over my friends’ growths and decisions for good.  If I were to spend as much energy spying out potential buds of the spirit that maybe might plump out into fruits of the spirit.  

The Gospel of Peace and Shoe Spikes

Put on the full armor of God…with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes with the gospel of peace…”  Eph 6:15

Anything I’ve ever heard about The Armor of God section of Ephesians has a lot to do with some serious tactical battle approaches.  You know what I’m talking about- do a quick consultation with Mr. Google and you’ll dig up about five hundred essays on how soldiers had spikes in their shoes to keep them from falling over- the gospel of peace should be like shoe spikes.  Essays on how peace gives you a firm chin, where you can resolutely march forward in the thickest battles- the gospel of peace makes you a good stiff upper lip.  Essays that convey the ugliness of combat, bayonets lifted and war cries ring out- the gospel of peace stabs out in the darkness, slaughtering all that is…non-peaceful? 

Hang with me here.  I know that Paul is writing about how we need to put on armor because spiritual battle is ACTUALLY intense and ought to be taken seriously.  This is a war metaphor during a time of great civil unrest and brutality and The Enemy creates unrest and brutality.  Paul is talking in terms that the people understand, and naturally, it rather sticks in the craw of a staunch, do-till-you-die pacifist.    

However. 

This is a long introduction to say that this morning, I was struck by the fact that we are made READY by the gospel peace.  Our feet are fitted with readiness because of PEACE.  What does that mean?  When I think of peace, I do not think of a stiff upper lip.  I do not think of shoe spikes.  I do not think of bayonets and stabbing.  I do think of Middle C- that perfect note singing clear through darkness.  I do think of quiet meadows by cool streams, with sunlight vacillating between the trees.  I do think of adventure- that wild joy of verdant youth, always prepared to jump because the ground will always catch you. 

Our feet are fitted with readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. 

I feel anxious about The Future (oh yes, that theme, again) and this morning I felt a sigh of relief.  I am made ready for the future by internalizing NOW the gospel of peace.  The gospel of peace.  The unconditional acceptance from a God who loves me.  The undeserved mercy and compassion extending over ALL who hurt and ache and are weary.  The victory that causes weapons of death to be hammered out into ploughs of life- tools that encourage food and health. 

My task is not to turn myself into a determined do-gooding, forward-marching machine, but rather to connect myself with Christ.  The more I sit at his feet, breathing in his name, the more likely I am to love my enemy, to loosen my hold on micromanaging, to laugh at the unexpected.  The more likely I am to be ready to bring the gospel of peace.  

A Slick Set of Drawers

No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine.  Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.  John 15: 4

Jesus’ imagery here is a little sneaky.  It’s funny that He calls us branches in a vine, not say, branches in an oak tree or perhaps a mesquite.  I was thinking about that.  I was thinking that it might be a lot nicer to be an oak tree or a mesquite.  If you cut off one of those suckers, you have a fairly nice piece of wood there.  You can use it to make a slick set of drawers or maybe turn ‘em into a lamp or a chair.  You can polish that baby up and have a nice piece of something, that’s for sure.  Imagine, you could be a really solid side table in the Kingdom of Heaven. 

Vines, on the other hand, are totally worthless when they are cut off from the main enchilada.  They instantly loose strength and become limp noodles- aka- perhaps useful for snapping around and hitting people in the face but not at all useful for building things. 

But I guess that’s the point: we are made for the express purpose of glorifying God and enjoying Him forever- the catch being that you actually have to be somewhat connected to Him in order to do the said glorifying and enjoying, much less have any active fruit-production in your life.  The point is that if we are disconnected from God, all we end up doing is whipping around and hurting people despite our best intentions.  On the other hand, if we are connected to Him, all sorts of juicy goodness can flow from our hearts and minds and thoughts.  We can be used to bring life and oxygen into barren, suffocated deserts.  

Blood in the Water

You always hear the phrase blood in the water.  I think of shark movies, where the blood is one drop or many drops of red food coloring.  The dye quickly diffuses into a thousand lighter shades of red, now pink.  All the water is pink.  There is blood in the water and ruthless flashes of rear-pointed teeth and wild shrieks pre-empting amputation or death.  I hate shark movies. 

But what I see is not that type of blood in the water.  It is more like oil in water, with the oil keeping to itself in oblong loops.  There is no solubility, no pink.  But maybe not quite like oil in water because what I see sinks.  Heavier than water.  Mercury in the water.  But not quite like mercury either.  The not-oil and not-mercury flows to the bottom of the toilet, creating a long train as it heads towards the bowl siphon.  It wraps itself around the poo.  The poo that came out with the other sort of pushing.  The poo that only poked its head out from the bowl siphon.  That’s shitty, I think to myself.  The PUNisher strikes again, I think to myself.   Gramma wouldn’t find that joke funny, I think to myself. 

Really, the blood in the water is most like gelatinous jellies, silently sifting through the Pacific’s zooplankton.  The difference being that the gelatinous jellies are alive while the blood in the water is not. 

You can find anything on the internet.  At seven weeks hands and feet emerge from developing arms and legs.  At seven weeks there is a liver producing red blood cells and a pancreas that will soon produce hormone insulin (for digestion?).  At seven weeks it’s the size of a blueberry.  I squint.  More the size of an eraser on a number 2 pencil. 

For three days (has it really been three days?) I find pieces of cord, twisting strips of veins, a large flap of placenta wrapped around a tampon.  I actually take the piece of placenta off the tampon and lay it on a single square of double-ply toilet paper.  It is big.  The circumference of a plum.  Maybe an orange.  It looks just like the mantel of a squid. 

I taught squid dissection to seventh graders.  Usually the third day of summer camp.  My voice would be hoarse by then and I would be downing hot chamomile with a squirt of vanilla.   Place the squid with the dorsal side up, I would say.  Identify the beak, the fins, the mantel.  Note how the ventral beak overlaps the dorsal beak.  What makes this beak different than a parrot’s beak?

Somehow finding this very real, scientific evidence makes me feel better.  The deep upwelling of pain that unexpectedly tingles my nose and makes the corners of my mouth tremor is because of something, not because of nothing.  I think I need proof that I’m not just making it all up.  Something tangible so that the doctor won’t look over the top of her red wire-framed glasses with eyes that say, You came in for this?  I don’t know why I live in dread of that look.  Maybe because I need validation- what you feel, that ache in your side, is real.  Is worth my time. 

I gently lay the single square of double-ply toilet paper face up in the trashcan next to the toilet.  Just in case I want to check on it later, to remind myself that it was real.  Just in case someone else wanted to see, to know that I wasn’t making it up.  But who would want to see that?  


I shove the paper deep into the rubbish bin.