Deep Roots and Shallow Convictions - A Gardner's Observation

Deep Roots and Shallow Convictions – A Gardner’s Observation

            My wife and I are blessed to live in a small rural town of about 350 people who are all (or at least mostly all) good, salt-of-the-earth people.  Many of them are multi-generational farmers who know the joys and heartaches of what it takes to plant in faith, nurture, care for, and partake of either a bounteous harvest or devastating loss.

            Being inspired by our many neighbors when we moved here 13 years ago, and being fortunate enough to have a nice, moderate size corner lot, we have tried our hand at becoming backyard gardeners over the years.  While our intentions are always grand and glorious each spring, the reality of long summer days, relentless weeds, and our own inexperience have led to some variable crops from year to year.

            Nonetheless, it is a fun endeavor to participate in with what time we have amongst our otherwise busy lives, and there’s nothing better than eating fresh produce from your own garden each fall!  We have tried many different gardening techniques, some with good success and others with humbling failure, but the experience has taught me many things throughout the years, a few of which I would like to share with you today.

            One of our yearly favorites is corn.  There is something wonderful about picking cobs of corn fresh off the stalk, cooking them within the first 15 minutes of picking and then eating them slathered with butter, salt and pepper (I’m drooling just writing about it)!  This year was no exception, and when the time came to plant, I took it personally upon myself to plant the rows of corn with tender care.

            As the summer progressed, my excitement grew along with the tall stalks rising up into the sky as I dreamed of the plump, juicy ears soon to be forming.  They were beautiful and seemed to be taller and thicker than in years past.

            But a shocking surprise awaited me when I went out to check the garden just a few days ago.  I couldn’t believe it.  My once majestic stalks lay toppled horizontally across the ground!  What had happened?  Had some group of visiting, nearsighted aliens attempted to make a crop circle in my small rows?  Did Bigfoot pay another visit to my property and decide to make a cozy bed in my soft garden soil? (See this link for the story on my Bigfoot encounter - http://outspirations.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-night-i-shot-bigfoot.html )

            Actually, it was nothing spectacular at all, as a visit with a wiser more experienced farmer revealed.  The mistake was mine and mine alone.  During planting, I had made the mistake of planting in freshly tilled soil, which was too loose and aerated.  I had also planted the seeds too shallow in the earth by about ½ to ¾ of an inch less than I should have.  The result was stocks of corn that sprung up easily through the soft dirt, without much of a struggle to reach upwards into the light.  And because the seeds were too shallow, the roots did not sink deep enough into the solid base they needed, but instead spread out not far below the surface.  The plants looked beautiful with all their energy able to be poured into the stalks… but without a solid foundation and sure footing, the recent heavy rain and wind storm had easily uprooted them, leaving behind a toppled mess, from which no fruit will be harvested.

            In life when things go too easily for us, we feel as if we are able to flourish without any need for struggle or extensive effort.  We tend to complain when the soil of life is hard and stiff, and we seem planted too deep to get out, but with the consistent struggle to do so and rise above our trials, we form deeper stronger roots, in a more sure footing, which is able to then support us once we reach the sunshine waiting for us beyond the struggle.  But in those easy times, we often fail to make the effort needed to anchor ourselves adequately and when the winds come and the storms beat upon us, we are too weak to withstand the onslaught and fall.

            It is so important to anchor our lives to the “Rock of Salvation” our Savior, Jesus Christ. And make the effort to sink the roots of our testimony in him deep and sure.  Life’s winds will surely howl about us, and without that sure bedrock and footing, the rest of what we appear to be is weak and likely to topple.  We are only as strong as our roots.

            Another brief lesson to share has to do with our raspberry patch.  When we moved to our home, it was thick and overgrown, and could only be effectively cared for around the edges.  The interior was clumped and clogged, and we never seemed to yield as many berries as we felt were possible.

            Over the past few years, we made a concerted effort to thin and shape the bushes into more manageable form.  We attacked them with hedge trimmers, trimming out the old dead canes, putting up stakes and restricting the bushes with twine.  These initial actions may have made the bushes wonder, “Hey, what the heck are you doing to us?  Why are you cutting and gutting me and taking away from what I have worked so hard to become?”  The result however was manageable rows through which we were able to walk, weed, water and fertilize more effectively.

            As a result of this trimming, taking away of the dead and useless parts, we have had several years of incredible berry production and output, which was never realized during the years of cluttered overgrowth.  The plants are now able to produce and fulfill their purpose and potential.

            Hopefully what I’m trying to say is obvious.  If we can make an effort in our lives to cut out much of the unnecessary and unproductive behavior we seem to often engage far too much time and effort in, we will likely find that our lives are much more sweet and fulfilling, as we operate within the rules and guidelines of the gospel principles the Lord has staked out for us.

            May our spiritual roots be anchored solid and deep in fertile soil, and our lives be more focused, unencumbered and meaningful.  Although mistakes will occasionally cause us to miss some of the corn that could have been enjoyed, through God’s plan of happiness for us, we can all enjoy the sweet and savory fruit this life has to offer, if we are allow our will to come more in line with his purposes.

            Now… to enjoy the fruits of our labors!  Mmmmm!!!

As Plain as the Nose on Your Face

As Plain As The Nose On Your Face

            No, it’s okay… I’ll admit it.  I’ve got a bit of a big nose!  Not the huge bulbous kind that

looks like a tennis ball with nostrils, but the longer skinny kind, with a narrow bridge which is crooked and tilted off a bit towards the right side.  If I were to literally comply with the age old advice to “Follow your nose”, my journey would be a large clockwise circle which could be measured by the exact degree to which my nasal septum deviates.  Trauma will do that to a nose…especially multiple traumatic events.

            Although I am sure there were many blunt force episodes to the most forward part of my face over the years, I can remember three specific events which I will recount today.

            The first happened in sixth grade PE class at the old Washington Elementary school on Main Street, which has long since been torn down.  On this particularly fine day, our class was engaged in an epic and ruthless game of dodge ball.  Now when you are a young, not yet developed 6^th grader, you can only grasp and throw a big 11” rubber dodge ball with limited force and control, and typically don’t inflict or receive much damage.  But amongst the collection of rubber balls in the gym closet at Washington Elementary, were a hand full of smaller 6” diameter globes of death we referred to as “cherry bombs”!  When inflated with enough PSI, these small projectiles packed a bit of a sting when hurled with accuracy.  Lucky for us, our puny pre-pubescent arms didn’t pack much of a punch.

            But on this particular day, we had encouraged our teacher, Mr. Erickson to join in our battle to the death, in thoughts that it would be fun to peg our teacher with balls and have it be legal and acceptable.  After all, how else could a kid get back at the man who docked you a few points on your last spelling test?

            The problem was that although he was a bigger target, he could also throw a lot harder than we could. I remember being engaged in brutal combat, and bending down to pick up a large ball rolling near my feet, while unbeknownst to me, at the same time, Mr. Erickson was hurling a tightly pressurized cherry bomb at someone standing several feet behind me.  As I arose to search for my next victim, my hands occupied holding the ball I had just retrieved; I stood up directly into the line of fire.  I remember my face feeling intense burning numbness, and I think I might have felt the tip of my nose briefly bounce off the back of my skull as it compressed inward and then exploded back outward with a great burst of blood.  My lips stung and my eyes spurted tears as warm, red liquid gushed over my chin and I staggered sideways out of bounds and my nose now slanted slightly askew.

            Nasal deviation #2 happened a few years later while playing football. Back at that time in Junior High, I was playing fullback and linebacker (these were the days before I grew into a sluggish offensive lineman). During the course of play, one of my chin strap snaps had come loose. It was right before halftime and during one of the final plays before the quarter ended I had a significant collision with an opposing player.  I can’t remember now if I was running with the ball and getting tackled or if I was making a tackle on someone else, but during the collision, the chin strap of my helmet came completely loose and my helmet was jammed forcefully downward, with the top edge of my helmet breaking my nose flat and once again, slightly off to the right.

            A humorous side story to this event was that after having halftime of the game to staunch the bleeding from my nose, our team was kicking off to begin the second half.  While running down the field full speed on the kickoff, an opposing player stepped in front of me to block my progress.  As we impacted an enormous amount of coagulated blood and snot which had filled my nasal cavity during halftime, was ejected out through my broken nose, bypassing my face mask and splattering all over the chest of the opposing player!  I remember the look of shock and horror on his face as he looked down at his jersey after the play.  Unhurt and now breathing better, I laughed and ran off, but I am sure that over the years since he has exaggerated the story, and not knowing of my previous injury, has told his kids of the time that he hit a player so hard he literally knocked his brains out.

            The third traumatic blow to my protruding proboscis occurred on a dark and quiet night.  I was in high school and my room was in the deep, dark recesses of the basement.  Awakening from a sound sleep, I realized I needed to use the bathroom.  Not wanting to awaken my brother, who was still fast asleep, by turning on a light, I arose and made my way toward the door.  Now at night, in a basement with no windows or lights on other than a minuscule fraction of light reflected around several corners and down a flight of stairs, I was pretty blind as I staggered forward.  I recalled that we had left our bedroom door partially open and I didn’t want to run into it, so I plodded ahead waving my arms back and forth in front of me like a lurching zombie or Frankenstein monster for several slow, cautious seconds.  Mentally calculating that I surely had passed the doorway at this point, my bladder reported that I needed to quicken my pace to the designated objective.

            Lowering my hands partially to my sides, I strode ahead out into what I expected to be the hallway.  Imagine my sniffer’s surprise when I thumped fully unguarded and face first into the edge of the open door.  Although it wasn't at high speed, in my sleepy stupor it might have well been a stiff boxers jab to the face. Once again the blood flowed from my nasal orifices, albeit off to the aforementioned right angle.

            Now all these years later, I am reminded of such events every time I look into the mirror or try to take a deep breath through my deviated septum. So what can I possibly glean from these traumatic events and their ever-present facial reminder?

            From the dodge ball episode, I learned to be ever vigilant and never take your eyes off the potential spiritual attack of the Adversary.  I am reminded of the story in the Old Testament in Judges, chapter 7 when Gideon is instructed of the Lord to select only 300 soldiers for his army to fight against the Midianites.  The sign he was given to know which men to select was to have the men come and drink from the river.  Most lowered their heads to drink with their mouths to the water or knelt down and bent forward. But those few who kept their head up and alert to potential threats from the enemy as they used their hands to raise the water to their lips were those chosen and worthy to fight for the Lord… and they were victorious, despite their small numbers, in their battle against a Midianite army which was “without number”. I think the Lord would have all of us be ever vigilant and alert against the numberless temptations and spiritual attacks which might be thrown at us at any moment if we aren’t paying attention.

            My football fracture indicates that we must make every effort to ensure that we are properly clad in the armor of God (See Ephesians 6:10-18), including the helmet of salvation.

“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness… Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.”  Most likely, most of us tend to run around in the competitive game of life with pieces of our armor loose or missing, and when we encounter those collisions which mortality throws in our path, we suffer the unprotected consequences and pain.  When properly and securely padded in my football gear, I experienced many violent collisions without incident, but when we have chinks in our armor we are all vulnerable.

            In my darkened basement bedroom, I collided with an obstacle that I knew was there and thought I was prepared to handle, but just when I thought I was in control of the situation and knew my bearings, I became overly confident in my ability to negotiate the darkness safely without the simple assistance light could have provided.  Lowering my guard and lacking clear vision, I slammed face first into something I could have easily avoided.  In life, if not careful, we can all fall victim to overconfidence in our own ability to do things on our own.  We fail to take the effort to do those things that will shed a more clear light onto our surroundings and give us clear vision to avoid the pitfalls and stumbling blocks which are strewn along our path.  Thinking we can negotiate the darkness on our own, without the light and help the Lord has to offer us, we will undoubtedly experience some unnecessary hard knocks.

            The good news is that, despite the short term blood, sweat and tears we spiritually suffer, that the Lord helps us to heal our wounds, learn and keep moving forward.   As I look at my crooked nasal reflection, I am glad that he has left me a small reminder of these lessons learned, so that hopefully I can avoid repeating them again in the years to come.

            Happy days, friends!  Remember to keep your armor secure, your guard up and stay in the light!

EVEL KNIEVEL TAKES ON COTTONWOOD HILL

EVEL KNIEVEL TAKES ON COTTONWOOD HILL

            As mentioned in some previous blog posts, I spent my early childhood growing up in the rural town of Bishop, California.  It was the early 1970’s and the hippie movement was still in full swing, with rock bands like Three Dog Night singing “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” and kids like me were running wild all summer in short shorts, tank tops and bare feet (or maybe the occasional pair of flimsy flip-flops).

            There were many childhood heroes in those days.  The Six Million Dollar man, with his bionic legs, arm and eye was saving the world on TV each week, not to mention his countless escapades of courage and valor around my house and yard, as my Steve Austin action figure battled whatever foes my imagination could conjure up on days which were never filled with boredom.  Now days, $6 million dollars wouldn’t serve to rebuild a busted up guy for more than a couple of knee replacements, a catheter and a motorized wheelchair, but in the early 70’s that kind of money could build a robotic super hero!

            In those days, kids didn’t have computers, smart phone, videos or DVD’s and endless entertainment at your fingertips.  A kid’s imagination was his domain… a world where if you had a hot wheel car, an action figure and some dirt, you could play for hours on end and never get bored.  In fact, a kid with a bicycle and a few pieces of scrap wood could build a jump and be Evel Knievel right in his own driveway!  In fact, there was one day, when several of the kids in the neighborhood all got together, and with an old milk crate and some plywood, constructed a jump of, what we thought was, "EPIC" proportions.  I can’t remember who it was now, but one kid came tearing down the street as fast is his smoking, little twig legs could go, and when he hit that jump he pulled up on the handle bars and really sailed off into space… the only problem was that the impact of the jump jarred his front tire loose from the front forks of his bike, and as he sailed up into the air, his tire fell down and bounced off to the side of the road.  Needless to say, he came to a rather abrupt stop upon landing, as his front forks dug into the hot summer asphalt and bent upwards at an angle that would only be useful if you were pedaling your bike inside of a bowl.  But don’t worry, he was stopped from bouncing his skull off the pavement by the force of his crotch slamming into the post below his handle bars, and eventually his voice returned to normal within a few weeks!

            But, lest I forget, we need to get back to Evel Knievel.  Now there was a true adrenalin junkie

daredevil way back before they had things like the X-Games, Mountain Dew, or Monster Energy drinks!  With nothing more than a motorcycle, leather suit, cape, and a helmet, he seemingly defied the laws of physics and laughed in the face of gravitational pull.  Yes, he was one of my childhood heroes, a fact which would come back to haunt me in the story I am going to share with you today.  But as young children my brother and I spent days flying down the long dirt driveway on our BigWheels, and later jumping plywood ramps on our make-shift, beat up, banana seat bikes.

            It happened on a hot summer weekend.  I can’t exactly remember how old I was at that time (a result of too many blows to the head throughout my childhood no doubt – a fact of which my poor mother can attest), but I couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8 years old.  My parents had gone out of town for the weekend, and my older brother Dirk and I were staying with one of our friend’s on the outskirts of town.  It just so happened that they lived along the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in a small house at the bottom of Cottonwood Hill (Cue dramatic music in the background – Dum, Dum, Dum!!!)

            I don’t think my childhood memories are exaggerating much here, but Cottonwood Hill was actually more like Cottonwood Cliff.  Not that it was incredibly long, but the angle it seemingly sloped off the edge of the world was enough that if you had a gutless car (which in the early 70’s probably would have been a Ford Pinto or AMC Pacer), you may not ever leave the valley floor unless strapped behind a beefy tow truck.

            In the mid-afternoon, as my brother, myself, and our friend, Mike Bellick played in his yard, we noticed some older teenage kids with their bikes at the top of the hill cliff.  Whooping with joy and exhilaration they coasted at incredible speeds down the steep incline and blurred past us for several blocks worth of momentum before disappearing off somewhere else in the neighborhood.  Visions of our hero, Evel Knievel, flooded our youthful cognitive processes and soon we found ourselves climbing our bikes up the hill.

            When I say climbing, it’s because not only did we have insufficient muscle fibers in our scrawny legs to propel a bike up the hill by pedal-power, but because if it were any steeper, I’m pretty sure we would have needed carabineers, climbing harnesses and a belay system of some sort to reach the top!

            Huffing and puffing great gasps of air, we may have well been standing on Mount Everest.  If I had sense enough to look around, I’m sure I would have found a small hut with an old guru sitting in it, who would have offered some sage advice such as, “What are you crazy kid?!  You’ll kill yourself trying to ride down that hill!!!”  But my head was filled with visions of a stars and stripes clad Knievel, and the sense of adventure and pending exhilaration bypassed all my safety mechanisms.

            Our friend, Mike, was smart enough to peer over the edge of the chasm, his hands trembling on the handle bars, and state, “No way I’m riding down that!”  But my brother Dirk, who was then one of my childhood heroes as well, and who I have followed and admired my entire life, mounted his banana seat and slipped a foot onto the pedal, so I naturally followed suit.  Adrenaline pumping fun was only a few feet away.

            After the initial stomach-jumping-up-into-your-throat thrill of going over the precipice, I realized that my pedals were instantly useless for propulsion, because I was suddenly rocketing faster than my legs would ever be able to go.  The relentless pull of gravity now had free sway, and as the wind whipped my ragged hair about my head and tugged at my tank top, I suddenly became aware why Evel Knievel wore a leather suit, boots and a helmet, as my short nylon shorts and flip-flops left far too much exposed skin in event of a crash.

            In fact, all the glory and heroics of Evel Knievel seemed irrelevant at that moment, and were replaced by the repressed memories of some of his horrific crashes and bone crushing injuries (In fact, the over 433 broken bones he suffered during his career earned him an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records as the survivor of "most bones broken in a lifetime”)  The details aside, my quick-lived exhilaration was now replaced with the frozen shock and horror of impending doom as my flimsy little bike hurtled down the rough graveled roadway.  I’m not sure whether it was the speed which caused my handle bars to begin violently vibrating in my grip, or the spasmodic convulsing of my body, but my twig like arms were no match for the force placed upon them.

          Out of the corner of my wide-eyed terror, I saw my brother hit his brakes in attempt to slow down, causing his rear wheel to fish-tail uncontrollably as he fell behind me.  At the same instant my handle bars began to wobbly back and forth with such severity that they were ripped from my sweaty palms and my front wheel spun sideways, ejecting me in rocket-like fashion head-first over the handle bars and onto the ragged gravel pavement below.  Unless you were a news crew or movie studio, people didn’t really have hand held video cameras in those days, but if someone would have been filming the event, I imagine it would have been somewhat like Evel Knievel’s famous crash while trying to jump the fountains at Caesar’s Palace.

            Of course, wearing nothing but a tank-top, shorts, and flip flops, my fragile flesh was exposed to the tearing forces of the rough gravel roadway as I bounced off my head and shoulder and rolled like a rag-doll for some distance down the hill side.

  My memories after that are a bit sporadic, but I did have glimpses of wailing screams, hamburger-bloodied hands and extremities, a pounding headache, and riding in the back of our friend’s mom’s station wagon back to their house.

            Because of shock and trauma, I don’t remember much until the next day, when my friend’s aunt, who was a nurse and had heard about my crash, came over to check on my condition.  When she examined my blood encrusted wounds she gave the following diagnosis, “He’s got so much rocks and dirt in these scabs that he’s sure to develop infection and permanent scars unless we clean them out.”

           The solution to this problem was a drive to the nearby Keough’s hot springs.  It was a natural hot springs that ran out through the desert plain, and was frequented by wandering Hippies and lazy travelers for a soak or occasional skinny dip of relaxation.  Normally, this would have been a great childhood adventure, and it was for my friend Mike and my older brother Dirk, who had somehow survived the event without injury.  But for me, the hot spring water was a scalding fire to my freshly formed road rash!  And if that weren’t enough, I then had to endure the aunt-nurse lady scraping, peeling and scrubbing off my water-softened scabs to cleanse the dirt and rocks from the wounds.  It was a day of tears and terror… the unexpected result of my thrill seeking lack of sense.

            Upon returning from their trip, when our parents arrived to pick us up that afternoon, they could only gaze upon me with sad and knowing eyes as they looked upon my situation.  It was as if experience had taught them that somehow they would return to find me in some kind of mess or another.

            Making a long story short, despite the pain of having the wounds cleansed at the hands of a skilled healer, my wounds did heal without infection and left no permanent scars behind, other than those which still lay deep within my psychological reservoir of experiences. But such is the nature of this life, and it is through experiences such as these that we are molded and formed into the people we ultimately become.

            If I had to draw a moral conclusion or parallel to this story and what I learned, it would be this:  That far too often in life we seek to cure the seeming boredom of our lives by trying to fill the void with something thrilling or exciting.  We somehow make the mistake that the fleeting rush of adrenaline and exhilaration is what provides happiness.  In saying this, I am no way implying that all thrill seekers are bad or that such activities don’t have their place in life, but when we throw common sense to the wind and jeopardize our future for the temporary thrill, we can find ourselves in situations which are helplessly beyond our control.

If the thrill-seeking actions are related to sin and violation of God’s commandments, we will always crash and burn and find ourselves littered with festering, debris-filled spiritual wounds, from which there is only one way to escape without permanent scars and injury… Repentance.

            Repenting from sin is not always an easy process, and often involves opening partially covered wounds and injuries and exposing them to the process of humility, restitution and spiritual cleansing.  But the end result is that, under the hands of the healing Master and his atonement, our wounds can be healed and made whole by the power of His love and forgiveness.  The flashy Evel Knievel and Six Million Dollar Man heroes of my youth have fortunately been replaced over the years by the real heroes in my life: My hard working and honest father, wise spiritual church leaders and friends, and countless others who live their lives in consistent acts of service and honest labor day-in and day-out.  Not living life like a flash in the pan, but by showing true strength, courage and moral fortitude by their heroic efforts to control their lives and emotions and use their talents to strengthen and lift others.  And especially the Master himself, Jesus Christ, who patiently and lovingly heals the wounds of my mistakes and allows me and all of us to progress and grow into something much better and more whole than we are today.