By way of introduction: For several years, my family has been living and working here at Clairvaux Farm in Earleville, MD. We have played different roles here as things have changed and have had the opportunity and shared blessing of being part of recreating this community as it turned over a new leaf and became part of the Deep Roots community. This article is written for our newsletter but I wanted to share it with all of you. (My daughter is the one sticking her head out toward the bottom of the picture, loving being with her new friends). This article is about work groups that join us in the work and "the work" that we do here. The picture is of the Americorps group that we had the privilege of hosting for two whole months. I don't know if we'll ever get this kind of opportunity to commune with a group for so long, but it was certainly a pleasure getting to know them and we look forward to long and loving friendships.




                      Grace- 

        under the table

 

 

     We live in a world of great expectations. There are standards and we try to measure up so that we- get good grades, get the right job, find the right partner, buy the right house and guide our children down the right paths. Sensible planning, for sure.

Most everyone I know has a space in their hearts set aside for the suspension of personal success in order to shine a light into the deep darkness of another’s broken dreams. With the frequently high-pressure push to check off all of our fine accomplishments, nearly all of us experience failure, fatigue and self-doubt. We have to catch our breath. We hold out for the generosity of family, friends and neighbors. We find love in the most unexpected places. We find each other. We find life.

Summer has officially begun here at Clairvaux Farm. Shirtless, shoeless young boys run roughshod through the houses, the kitchen and the barns. They plunge into the wading pool, creating a soup of their moisture and rubble. Mothers emerge from their rooms and sit outside rocking and cuddling their infants. Admirers take turns holding innocence in their arms under the summer sun.

We are in great chaos at times. We work through the struggles to keep ourselves together and manage glimpses of community, like diamonds in the rough. And during these times, God presents us with friends; friends who join us for pre-set increments of time (typically a week).  They come from all over the map to help us build and paint, stew and sew and to sing and dance and play with our children.  Work groups, we call them. That’s what they are on paper. But, truly, they are our friends.

They arrive with goals. There are physical things to be done and their work will change our attire and make us more beautiful and more functional at the same time. It is nice to look upon the work that is completed and see something new and special, molded by the very hands that we break bread with each day. It is equally marvelous to know we have loved and that we are loved.

            Yesterday, I was helping a mother find her three-year-old son. We searched and we yelled and looked everywhere we thought he might be. I was looking out front when I decided to pass back through the dining hall. The boy was hiding under a table not visible to anyone not searching for him. Somehow his mother had found him and was giving him what-for.  After taking his tongue lashing, he insisted on eating his dinner under the table. His mother was exhausted; angry with him but clearly aware she was now in a stand-off. Just then, a young woman from the Americorps  work group scooted under the table to dine with him and the boy’s face lit up. It was a comfortable moment. Two people finding each other at dinner time; sharing and caring.

            There was no plan for this moment; no way for anyone to anticipate the needs of either party. God’s grace is like that; mysterious, unexpected, a true gift. In an instant, we go from the position of helper to helpee and from teacher to pupil. In these brief encounters, our plans are irrelevant. Our only exercises of preparation are the calisthenics of love; stretching our hearts and minds to believe this love is possible and that we are worthy of receiving, even when we are tasked with giving.

            Our friends from out of town come and go. They leave handprints in the cement and with paint on the projects they complete. But they take us with them and leave with us all flavors of their love and friendship.

 

"My Friends I will remember you, think of you, pray for you. And when another day is through, I'll still be friends with you".

-John Denver

Winning

Creeping up on 50, for the first time in my life, I have become a voracious reader. As knowledge goes in, understanding comes out. I am currently reading The Kite Runner and it is largely about a son winning his father's love. Of course, that sounds absurd. Shouldn't a father's love be unconditional, readily available, always accessible? Yet, having to win love is often the case, or that's how it appears to us sons anyway.

He could hardly stand it. I laid wheezing, flipping back and forth like a doomed fish, bridging on my heals and on my head; the other boy's grip tightening around my neck, his chest pressing even with mine. I think he's still yelling, but I can't hear. I see nothing but the black and white trim of the neckline on my opponent's orange singlet. No cheers. No sound. No hope. I can't breathe. I surrender. My legs lay flat. I give in to what feels like a car lowering slowly onto my small frame. Then a sound, a familiar sound. A dull hard thud that I know is really a slap. The referee ending the match; his palm racking the surface of the padded green stage that I just fell off of. A cheerleader sitting cross-legged lends a glance as I get back up and I know it is an attempt at kindness, but it fades fast and she joins her pack in revving up for my 105 pound team mate; a surer bet. He is already sitting back down. As lame as it would have been, strictly against the warrior code, I wanted him to run down and hug me. I wanted him to say that I did my best and that he was always proud of me. But I had failed again.

He wasn't angry or even disappointed. It was more like confused; like he knew that I had quit and just couldn't understand why. He loved me; more than I knew, certainly more than I would acknowledge to myself. But I needed him then and couldn't figure out how to tell him. I couldn't even figure out how to tell myself. So it went on, the losing. Several pins and too much silence after. Walking with my Columbus High Sailors green and white duffel bag, head down, away from the sweaty half-naked teenage boys out into the cold. I didn't want to get in the car. I just wanted to do it all over again and change the ending; turn that kid over, smother him, hear the cheers and see Dad still standing. I wanted a man hug, a victory hug. But I couldn't change it. It was painful to rehash. Eventually I quit.

The next chapter is on the sunnier side. There was respect and recognition and love underneath. We coached together. He had me demonstrate moves for the junior high kids. I sparred with the middle weights. I refereed the younger ones. I sprawled out on my belly, fanning three fingers under shoulder blades, giving points, blowing the whistle, slapping the mat. It was all upstairs. It was out from under. It was promising. It was easy to get in the car, to stand in the cold, to wait and talk and strategize. 


I stayed close to the sport. I loved wresting. I still do. We watched lots of matches together and we went to the NCAA Championships year after year. We traveled. He told jokes. We ate together and sat next to each other in the stands. He loved wrestling and he loved me. Wrestling was a right of passage. It just took some time to get there. It happened in the car, the hotel rooms, the restaurants and stadiums. Next to him-anywhere.

Winter always ended though. Then there was golf. But that's another story; one about fathers and sons and long walks together. It's another reel I play back and treasure. Someday I'll walk over a big hill and across a small stream and beyond the green, just before the next tee and sit with him on the bench while we wait to tee off. And it will be right and real and perfect. And I'll get that victory hug and we'll laugh under the Iowa sunshine and I'll see my daughter in his eyes.