Our Saviors

This article (or some form of it) will likely appear in the Deep Roots spring issue of our newsletter. To access previous newsletters or learn more about Deep Roots, go to deeprootsinc.com.

 

 

The leopard shall lie down with the young goat, The calf and the young lion and the fatling together; And a little child shall lead them.
-Isaiah 11:6

 

“Our kids”. I hear that. I say it. While we spend a lot of time forming individual relationships with these children, we must simultaneously think of them collectively. My wife and I have one child. Some of the adults who participate in and contribute to our community have more. Still, there are those with grown children who are living their own lives. But they are all our children; the children of Deep Roots. Some live at Clairvaux Farm. Others have lived here. And the rest, the majority of “our children”, live out there in the community, on the periphery, with stability as a luxury and not a guarantee. They don’t belong to us anymore than any person can be the property of another. But we care for them. We know them. We love them. We believe in who they are and who they can be.

This way of thinking, this inclusive construct, is a selfless surrender to God’s plan of love and fellowship. It is a global way of thinking. We plan beyond the members of our households and see something bigger for these young people. We see their future and we hope that Deep Roots can be at the core of their lives; a people and a place to belong, especially when they feel broken. This is right. This is beautiful. Together we are facilitating and building a community. It is a lot. And it is not near enough.

The media and their subjects are presenting a very bleak outlook these days. And, while we can make our own news with the inspiring accomplishments of our children, it would be unwise to have our heads in the sand. In our world and our country there are many children who have little or nothing to eat. Some children serve as slaves. Some might as well be as they try to help their families make ends meet in areas where labor laws are non-existent or not enforced.  Poverty is a burden to so many. Finally, there is the violence. In places like Honduras and El Salvador, murder is so endemic that tens of thousands of children risk their lives and embark on dangerous journeys to make it to the US, often to find a parent or a relative who made it here first. Many don’t make it. Too many don’t survive. In Syria, families are flooding out of the country to escape indiscriminate mass slaughters by misinformed and misdirected extremists. Of course, there are extremist groups within our borders whose most heinous acts deny families their right to prosper together. And large urban areas of the US are plagued with gun violence that seems to be surging. The young people who die in our cities fail to make headlines or are forgotten so as to make way for the next wave of victims. We shouldn’t forget Newtown, Columbine or Aurora where young people have been targeted in mass shootings, mostly by other young people

Of course, we at Deep Roots do not (even collectively) possess the power to heal the vast, dark horrors and injustices that exist outside and around us. This healing will happen gradually but it will happen. It will happen because we know that our saviors are among us. Our young people will save the world; the earth and its occupants. This time “our” is literally global. The young people of the world will save the world. And it is the logical next step with the young people of Deep Roots to go global. When we spend time with them, we become aware of their hopefulness and generosity. We must develop opportunities for our young people to interact with others who are focusing their young energy on urgent issues. We do this when we accompany them to state parks and nature preserves. We pave the way for them when we involve them in our efforts to recycle, garden and prepare healthy home-grown meals. While young soldiers learn the life of death, it is crucial that we foster a passion for living and living with other young people from all walks of life. Their willingness to recognize their differences with respect and enthusiasm will go a long way in the discovery of their birthright- peace.

It is an exciting time. Like the floral arena that surrounds the Farm on warmer days, we witness the mass blooming of our young people from this stage to that: taking their first steps, speaking their first words, swinging without a push, swishing the basketball through the net, taking off the training wheels, learning to swim and graduating. None of these things happen in a vacuum. It’s all about togetherness. These children will be our teachers, our builders, our lobbyists, our scientists, our farmers and our officers of the law. They will grasp the humanity of all of God’s children and they will thrive.

Let’s go along for the ride. All of us. Whatever your contribution, it matters to this community. Come into the fold and offer your talents and your time. Last year a wonderful group did mission work making curtains and people of all ages joined in and enjoyed the community of creation. Another group carved pumpkins and this week we’ll have girl scouts baking Christmas cookies with our kids. It’s a big world and we (that means you) bring the best of it. Bring your children to be with ours, anytime. Bring your hope and appreciation for the life of seeds and sunshine and share the gospel of faith and fellowship. We are all thirsty for each other! Join us.

On the Run....again!

              I have the equivalent of twins brought to full term hanging over my waistband. I have a rickety ankle that quit bothering to make noise and I deal with chronic pain every day. I have asthma, high blood pressure and high cholesterol. One month ago, I decided to go for a run.

              Once upon a time, I ran. A few years after high school, I was asked (and felt challenged) to take a run with a friend. To my surprise, the wheezing and shortness of breath that plagued any athletic activity previously did not handicap my newfound practice. And practice it was. I ran a few 5ks and trained hard to run a 7-mile race along the Mississippi near the Iowa, Illinois border. I ran 10 miles to prepare for the 7; exploring my hometown in a way I never dreamed that I would.  The Bix 7, as it was (is?) called, was a real test of my will and confidence. I ran it two years in a row and improved on my time by five minutes.

              Years passed. I took up smoking for a while. I liked to eat, too much and too often (I still do, I suppose). I had a few surgeries, exploratory for the most part, meant to relieve pain in my groin area; ineffective unfortunately.  I got married and we had a child and it still hurt. Three years ago, new pain arrived in my neck and shoulder; pain that goes unresolved, only treated with a cocktail of pain meds that tend to make me sleepy as soon as I slow down. 

              I spent eight weeks in physical therapy a few months ago and, while it provided little relief of the pain, it felt good to exercise. At the end of the eight weeks, my therapist advised me to use the time I had put aside for PT to continue my exercises. While my daily schedule quickly filled back up, I was able to do this late at night after I got off work and was alone.

              I work at a hospital with lots of health nuts. I listen to some encourage each other on their exercise routines. I harbored some jealousy, believing this kind of exercise was a thing of the past for me. I thought my body was worn and I was ready to give up. But my exercises in PT demanded stamina and discipline and I became convinced I could work harder, do better. I started walking up and down the stairs at work between assignments. I kept doing my exercises at home and I added something.

              Usually at midnight, after I arrive home from work and change my clothes and shoes, I stretch a little and take off out of our long gravel driveway down an old country road, one step at a time. It’s hard. I’m carrying a bigger load than when I ran in my 20s. I measure my effort by telephone poles. Straining toward the next one when the slope gets steep and my gut starts to burn. Sometimes I slow down and walk. I try not to be hard on myself when this happens. As I push harder, I go further. My breath breaks through the burden of the wheezing. My day unwinds. I find clarity about crucial life decisions under a peaceful moon. Crickets chirp. The wind blows through the cornfields. Endorphins give temporary relief from pain. My body thanks me and I feed it some good stuff to show my gratitude.

              Now it’s like filling up the gas tank. I know I will run most nights (at least four nights a week). I know I need it to help me feel good and cope well. It takes very little to motivate myself. It is not a chore. Most nights, I look forward to it.

              I have run away a few times; run from responsibilities, from things that knocked me off balance. Not this time. I can’t run from the moon. There’s no barrier from the heavens under the night sky. I am exposed and delighted. I know that sharing this puts it out there- that I am committed. I held off on broadcasting my effort; my practice. I waited until it was a part of me. I hope, in sharing, that you can uncover something you thought you couldn’t do, or couldn’t do anymore. Just believe that you can.

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.