A Time and a Season

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my days grieving,” wrote Margaret Renkl in a recent New York Times column. She had thought of the many times she tried to comfort her children when they suffered some setback by telling them what her father used to tell her, “Life’s a long process. There’s still time.” But in living life, she has discovered that life is not a long process but “a flash of lightning. Life is a single wink from a single lightning bug.”

I pictured that firefly, winking at fellow travelers in a night sky. When my children were very young, they would run around on the lawn trying to catch them. “Hotaru!” (firefly in Japanese), they would cry excitedly when they spotted its flickering and jump with outstretched, cupped hands to catch it. In those days, there were so many hotaru and their glowing added a magical enchantment to the warm summer evening.

But when was the last time I saw a lightning bug? The sad truth is that I haven’t been keeping track, haven’t really thought about them. My attention has been preoccupied with the woes of these times, the overwhelming problems facing our society. It wasn’t only last year that the absence of fireflies became noticeable. If I reflect, it was when my children grew up, graduated from college, and started their own lives elsewhere when the fireflies became less important to me.

When I think about “the why” of their disappearance, I feel remorseful, for I surely have contributed to their gradual diminishing population. Fewer weeds can be seen on the lawn, and yes, its grass is ever so delightfully green. But I have not been a good steward of our Father’s world by spreading toxins on the lawn, poisoning the habitat so that lightning bugs won’t dare come into its presence.

A moment of grace. My eye catches glimpses of honeybees going about their endless work of gathering pollen and nectar. They hover over the pink rose bush and entwining white morning glories outside my kitchen window. I feel God’s mercy that they have not stopped in their tireless quest. The black-masked red cardinals and noisy blue jays still fly to our fence for a momentary respite. In the front yard, many flowerless stalks stand sentry and I know that some hungry mother doe has had her breakfast during the early dawn when I was asleep. The cicadas have stopped singing their call for a mate, but the crickets continue their serenade. The night is serene, peaceful: it is never totally silent.

Summer will gradually morph into autumn. Perhaps the crickets that have been singing all summer will cease their music—making as the September nights grow colder and blustery.

I will surely miss summer despite its sudden storms and overheated, lung-searing air. There has been so much else to appreciate in this season. Even the loss of the fireflies has its own beauty in my memory.

© 2021 by  Emy Kamihara

During the COVID-19 Isolation

“Write A Letter,” The Times counseled,
 “You’ll feel someone’s responding heart to heart.”

So, Dear Friend, How goes the organizing
Of Family photos from the 1800’s,
Your Great, Great Grandmother, Etc.?
Are you tuned in to CNN--“Lincoln:
Divided We Stand?”
I’m mailing you two night lights, resplendent:
Dragonflies—more inspiring than you’d think:
Change from water newts to flying insects,
Mean “Transformation,” “Maturity,” “Poise.”
Those night lights made me think of You.
(Nature lover, once you showed me, cupped within)
Your hand, spitting “tobacco juice,” a grasshopper.) 
A later summer day we spotted dragonflies
Hovering over water, skimming; they 
Delve beneath the surface. I’m certain it was
You, Bethany Center Road,
Near where my sister lived. Remember?
The morning Jen’s sister, the Mailwoman, 
Almost struck me, walking on the shoulder; 
She drove in front of me, delivering 
A letter to a mailbox. She almost
Mowed me down. You were behind me. Had
To be you.  Who else would have been strolling
With me on that country road?
(We just bought exercise pedals, to increase
Blood circulation while I stake TV—
It should be safe to ride a fraction 
Of a bicycle inside the house.)
Writing along the empty edge of my
Stationery now to imitate my ancestors
Who must have done that during The Depression.
 I’ve read some family letters—
Writers using every inch of paper
To save money, maybe—
I’d planned to write a poem on that. Perhaps
Still will. Research.  Will let you know. These arrows
Drawn along this edge indicate
The sometimes straight flight of a dragonfly. They can
Migrate over Oceans. And somehow have learned
To live on earth 200 Million Years.

© 2021 by Sandra Gerstman

Gratitude

The painting is titled “Gratitude Amidst All the Possibilities.” The connection with the Scripture is based on the presence of the cross and gratitude, which despite so much changes with time and seasons, ought to be a permanent part of the changes and the seasons, no matter what.

When This Is Over

The poem, “When This Is Over” by Laura Kelly Fannucci, was sent by Lynze Szabo to the CARE team, in honor of her mother, Joan Szabo. Click this link to read the poem.

Playing the Long Game

There is a time for everything, as the writer of Ecclesiastes tells us. Sometimes, though, we can do the work only on one side of the argument — planting — and leave the time on the other side — plucking up — for someone else. And that’s OK.

Consider trees. You may have heard or read some variation on the expression, “A society grows great when old [people] plant trees under whose shade they know they’ll never sit.” We have such a tree on our property, a black cherry tree (Prunus serotina). We didn’t plant it; a bird or small mammal must have done that some years ago. I’ve been cutting the shoots back, thinking that if I do that regularly the carbon-starved roots will eventually die. Shame on me. The tree continues to grow, despite those efforts, and this year I decided to include it in our little corner of Homegrown National Park because such native trees are valuable assets in the local ecosystem. It will likely be a couple of decades, though, before it provides shade under which I might sit, and other trees may be extracting nutrients from what remains of me by that time.

You have probably seen video or photographs of wildfires on the West Coast of the United States. Many of the trees consumed in those fires are Douglas fir trees. Douglas firs take decades to mature and can live up to 1,000 years. An on-line supplier of household products is offering to have seedlings of a Douglas fir variety that is native to Southern California planted to replace trees lost to recent wildfires. I’m thinking of including some with our next order. Not only will I never sit in the shade of these planted Douglas firs, I won’t even see them.

Werner Heck and I were discussing plastic recently, specifically single-use plastic water bottles. The discussion turned to the possible existence (or pending evolution) of plastic-eating microorganisms. Plastic is everywhere; microorganisms are everywhere. Since microorganisms don’t waste resources the way humans do, it’s inevitable, given enough time, that some of those microorganisms will develop the ability to break down plastic molecules and use the components as food. Some may already have such abilities.

The work of God’s kingdom is more like planting trees than looking or waiting for plastic-eating microbes and worms. Churches like Grace offer children’s ministries, youth programs, adult Bible studies and book groups, and other ministries where seeds are planted and spiritual growth is nurtured. Those who do the planting and nurturing may never see the people they minister to grow and mature in their faith; we must leave the results to God. (1 Corinthians 3:6) We are encouraged to do the work nonetheless. (Galatians 6:9–10) The lasting results of some social and racial justice work may not be evident until several generations in the future, but it’s still necessary work.

May we have courage to recognize the time that we have been passing through: a time for breaking down, and perhaps for weeping and mourning. May we also have courage to begin the time of building up so that we, and those who follow after us, will have a time for laughing and dancing.

©2021 by Pat Walsh