The Last One Standing

The older you get the more time seems to whiz by so I hadn't really noticed that six months had passed since the agent said she wanted my book proposal. Then I noticed that her facebook site said that she was behind, but only by 3 months. That means my proposal should have been read, and rejected likely, but still..... 3 months ago!!! Some agents don't bother to respond to their rejects, but this one had promised that she responds to every single writer! That is very kind, and also probably why she was 3 months behind in reading the proposals. We all would rather be rejected than treated as invisible.

So as I was driving home from errands, I was obsessing about how she either hated it so much that she decided to break her rule and not even tell me how completely she had rejected it, or she had lost it.
"I pray Lord," I finally said, "That she lost it, and good things will come of that. Like maybe she will offer to read it immediately. I thought you were directing me to write that book, dear Father. But perhaps I was wrong. Maybe you just wanted me devoting two years to this project to teach me something more valuable, like word processing skill, or how to bang my head against the computer without breaking it."

So upon arriving home, I wrote to her, trembling. She is my top choice agent and not because she is the only one left that hasn't rejected me, I assure you. She wrote back instantly.  She had reviewed her files and had indeed received my work at the time when her computer crashed. All her attached files, including my proposal were sacrificed to the EtherBeast. When I wrote a few months ago to ask how the proposal looked to her, she had said I should sit tight- she would be getting to it soon. But she had not realized it had been eaten alive in the computer crash, and she hadn't checked. Thus, my proposal was lost. Now of course I have plenty of copies backed up,so this in and of itself is not a disaster. The lost 6 months when I could have been searching out other agents to lose or reject me was a larger matter.  She apologized profusely, said it was completely her fault, and she proposed that if I was willing to send her another, she would read it by Friday.  I told her I had figured something like that had happened, and I would be very grateful for her offer to read it by Friday. I told her not to worry about it; I was just happy she would agree to look at it now.

Then she wrote back to thank me for my incredibly nice and understanding note. I am glad she seems to like me. Many of the agents over the past two years that have rejected me told me it pained them to reject me because they liked me. My work, well that not so much, but me they liked. I suppose of the two, I would prefer they like me.  So I am gratified that I was able to respond gently, which is not always my first choice, but I am also not deluded into believing that means my proposal will be accepted.

On our drive back from the mountains Tuesday, I noticed a barn up a hill on the side of the road. Tall Cyprus lined the roadside, and the barn stood starkly against the deep blue sky of the late afternoon. Nothing else filled the scene- just that weathered, lonely barn, blue sky, and green brown field. I thought how simple and elegant and beautiful that barn looked, and remembered paintings like that, where just a simple building in the vast and open beauty of an unadorned field and sky carried such power, such majesty. It seemed to me a statement of the courage it takes to stand alone in the vast and often harsh world, against sometimes what feels like impossible odds of survival, or certainly of triumph. Perhaps the painter would say sometimes a barn is just a barn, but to me, nothing is ever just what it seems to be. It is always God's message in symbol and pictograph. I identified with the barn, and the image of it came back to me as I thought of the agent reading my proposal for my book.

So many times in the Bible, the hero is found all alone at the bottom of a well, like Jeremiah, or in prison like Joseph, or covered with oozing sores and abandoned by everyone, like Job. Hosea is commanded by God to marry a harlot that will continue in her sinful life so God can provide an object lesson of unfaithfulness and its consequences.  None of those heroes deserved what they got, in my humble opinion, and yet every one was used by God to do great things of eternal significance.  Standing alone, feeling alone, being battered by the winds with no trees or valleys to shelter you is sometimes God's plan, and it feels very harsh. It feels harsh when I make my kid eat her vegetables though she feels like she would rather die than do so,too. Trust in an authority that seems capricious and cruel is close to impossible..... unless there is monumental evidence that it is all motivated by a powerful and understanding Love.  Every one of those heroes knew God intimately, and knew that His love could be trusted, even in those times when it didn't feel like Love.

I think we are all that solitary barn sometimes, all alone on a mountain, watching the storm clouds roll in. But you never know how many travelers are passing by, and looking at you and thinking if that old barn can stay upright, maybe so can I..... especially because the One who built me knows exactly how much my old frame can take of the bitter wind.

Psalm 102:7, 17-20
7 I lie awake; I have become
   like a bird alone on a roof. ¹⁷ He will respond to the prayer of the destitute;
   he will not despise their plea.
 ¹⁸ Let this be written for a future generation,
   that a people not yet created may praise the LORD:
¹⁹ “The LORD looked down from his sanctuary on high,
   from heaven he viewed the earth,
²⁰ to hear the groans of the prisoners
   and release those condemned to death.”

Why ham?

The day I call Resurrection Sunday is near. Everyone is busily preparing for that holiest of holy days by frantically scouring the mall for new shoes, bonnets, and dresses. There is no doubt Jesus would want us well dressed as we arrive at the crucifixion. The glorious symbol of perhaps the most horrifying and monumental act of all history is cheerfully plastered all over store windows, a furry little bunny carrying a basket laden with sugar goodies. And to cap it off, the most exquisite irony of all, the traditional meal to memorialize this leader of the Jews.....ham. For those of you who don't follow Kosher rules, Jewish people do not eat pork.

I don't want to throw a wet rag on everyone's happy celebration.... Easter is a happy day. Jesus rose again and we are saved from our sins if we believe in the atoning nature of that ultimate sacrifice. I just have never understood how this can be transmitted by a talking bunny hopping along with a basket of cavity causing goodies. Call me crazy, but I am not convinced this demonstrates the theological import of the event.

I am not a serious person. I have been accused many times of laughing too easily at too much. So sue me. But, for some reason, the whole Easter thing irks me. It just seems so flippant and thoughtless for what should be a day of deep self reflection and study.

Some people eat lamb for Easter, and that makes a certain amount of sense. The traditional passover meal was lamb, and quite likely, Jesus had lamb at His last passover celebration. The symbolism of a sacrificial lamb is appropriate to the season and to the event. But why ham? The reason is convenience. In the US, in the days before refrigeration, meat animals were slaughtered in the fall and either consumed or cured for the winter months. Curing was a lengthy process and pork was usually the first meat fully cured, right around Easter time.

Of course you probably don't need me to tell you that Easter is named after the goddess Astarte, the ancient Phoenician goddess of fertility and war. Now if that is not a symbolic conundrum, I don't know what is. Pop out those babies so you can shoot em down! But I digress.
Astarte was worshiped in pagan rituals that are a little racy for me to describe in a prime time blog. Both the egg and bunny symbols were associated with this fertility goddess. Why and how Christians appropriated these pagan symbols and then glued them to the holiest of holy
events is beyond the scope of this post.

I think we are being bamboozled... I think we sugar coat something that should be horrific. Jelly beans and Peeps just seem strange bedfellows with nails hammered into living flesh and the utter ugliness of sin and inestimable beauty of true sacrifice and atonement. Sometimes I think we settle for things that we should rage against, even if it is cuddly like a bunny.

Romans 12:2
Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.

Not Easily Broken

I love Birch trees, always have. It is therefore fitting that my married name is Estonian for "Valley of the Birch". I might be making that up, but I think my memory of what Arvo's dad told me is correct. They are a beautiful tree, the Dalmatian of the tree world with their white bark and black spots. They can be used for so many things, including Birch Bark canoes. They stand out in a crowd of more typical brown and gray trees.

The name birch derives from the sanskrit word bhirgo, meaning "tree whose bark was used to write upon". I love these kinds of names. Similarly, did you know that cinnamon roll is derived from the ancient sanskrit "bumpolitis" meaning"bread that places globules of cellulite"? These are little known facts that help me through my day.

The silver birch take 25 years to bear fruit, yet the birch are associated with the Norse goddess Frigga, the goddess of married love. They are thought to be hardier than oak, and make the strongest plywood. So beloved is this tree that it is the national symbol of Finland. While they can grow singly, many grow in clumps with multiple trunks. They can live for 50 years, but many die young because the soil must be just right, or they succumb quickly to pests and drought.

What a wealth of symbols God gives me in the Birch tree! While they can stand alone, they prefer the close company of others. They are hardy and strong if they are rooted in the right place. If not, they quickly wither and die. They are the symbol of married love, and take 25 years to bear fruit in some cases.

I love that my name means Birch Valley, because while I am not as strong as I should be, if I listen to the message of the Birch, maybe I will be stronger. I should be rooted in something secure and true, like the nail scarred hands of Jesus' sacrifice on my behalf. I should cling to others and not try to go it alone. I should recognize that marriage like any worthwhile relationship is a process, takes time and energy, and the fruit of that may not be immediately obvious. And best of all, my skin with all its age spots and wrinkles can be peeled off someday, exposing a strong smooth core.

Ecclesiastes 4:12
Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

The Artist's Prerogative

One of the best parts of being an artist, besides of course the fact that I don't have to hang Velvet Elvis on my walls because I have so much original art to choose from, is that I have the freedom to create the world I want. If I want to move a mountain, I can. If I don't like a person, I can erase him. If I want a horse, I can have one with the flick of a pencil. If I want snow or rain or sunshine.... all are equally within my grasp. The world I create is only limited by the skill with which I can draw it.

My mom and I were chatting a few days ago, and she told me that once I was with her while she was struggling to paint something that she really did not feel added to the beauty of the scene. She was painting from nature, gazing out on a landscape, and as I recall there were just too many bushes for her taste.

"Then just leave it out," I had told her. She was flabbergasted. She told me this was an astonishing revelation to her.
"You are an artist, not a camera," I told her, "You have the prerogative to add or delete anything you want."
When I paint trees, for example, I usually make an effort to paint the main trunk and largest limbs faithfully, but then the smaller limbs I just design in the way that gives my picture the most visual impact and the least frustration to my impatient hand.
I could see my mother, out of the corner of my eye, with almost a lunatic smile on her face jabbing at her scene with a wide brush, obliterating the offensive and difficult to draw little bushes.

Of course, if I could, I would erase cancer, and diabetes, and deviated septums. If I could, I would add ten telephone calls a day from distant sons, and a belly button that actually had a use like by pushing it short grey wiry hair would grow long and lustrous. I would wipe away twenty years of wrinkles but leave the wisdom that comes with each hard earned crevice. I would patch broken hearts and return orphans to mothers. I would remove every tooth designed to rip meat and replace it with only grinding molars. I would add a loving owner for every lonely dog, with an endless supply of milk bones. I would give snakes a different planet. This is just the short list.

One of my art class students once gazed absentmindedly into the distance as I was teaching a technique before the class, and then she raised her hand.
"Mrs. Kaseorg," she said, her face puckered in deep thoughtfulness, "Do you think there will be erasers in heaven?"
I paused, and considered the incredible insight of this young mind.
"No, I don't think we would need them," I answered.

Of course, my thoughts are not original. There is never an original thought. There are only recycled thoughts in perhaps a new form, but the essence is the same. Long ago, Jeremiah the prophet was commanded by God to go to the house of a potter. He was to watch the potter and wait for God's message. I love this story, because this is just how I think God often speaks to me. I watch the world around me and try to hear what He is saying. Anyway, Jeremiah watches the potter make a pot, and it is not a very good pot, so the potter smashes the clay and reshapes it into a better pot. I imagine around this time Jeremiah is wincing as he glances heavenward, because the symbolism is getting just a tad spooky. And then, in case Jeremiah has a head of cornmeal, God tells him explicitly-
"O house of Israel, can I not do with you as this potter does?" declares the Lord. "Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel. (Jer. 18:6)
If this were the only verse you read in the Bible, you may well go about like a beetle, hiding under rocks, but as with any good painting, it is critical to look at the whole thing. This Potter of all Potters spends very little time smashing His pots. Mostly He is binding broken hearts, breathing life into dusty bones, giving strength to the weary, and wings to eagles. And He reminds us over and over again that He specializes in broken pots because when they are broken, He can reshape them lovingly with His own hands.

Yet, O Lord, you are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand. Isaiah 64:8

Night Mares

When I was growing up, I had two recurring nightmares that were unusual. I had several that were more common- going to college finals having missed every class, showing up to class in my pajamas, and going to class but completely forgetting my schedule so I would wander through the school lost and alone. I am sure a psychologist would have a heyday with these dreams, but they are nothing compared to the recurring nightmares, both of which I had for decades (and on rare occasion still have.)

The first one is that an unknown and evil thing is chasing me. I cannot bear to turn and even see what the enemy is but I know I have to run away from it at all costs. For years, I would awaken screaming just before this horrible thing caught me. Determined to fight this unseen enemy, my subconscious finally got the courage to turn and face the enemy one terrifying night. It was a giant bag of M&M's. I kid you not.

The second enemy was not as simple to dispel. In that nightmare, I would wander through a giant deserted palace, knowing that hidden in one of the rooms was a starving horse. I knew that if I did not get to the horse and feed it, it would die. The dream had several variations, like any good show, knowing I would tune in to another dream channel if my interest lagged. One variation was that I could not find the path to the horse. Another variation was I would find the horse, dying and on his last few breaths, but I could not find the food. Another variation was I would find the horse, and the food, but be unable to get him to eat it. My memory is a butterfly, flitting in and out of sight, but I think the reason I finally stopped having the dream is that I did one day manage to feed the horse, a little. I kept hoping I would be able to feed the horse a feast but if I ever did, I don't remember it. I know it was with my faith in Jesus that the Night Mare was able to be fed.... and then slowly vanished from my nighttime adventures.

My sister Holly reminded me yesterday how strange it was that my lifetime recurring nightmare had become my reality in my involvement with HCF. There are other fears that have become reality. Like the stranger that greets me in the mirror each morning, with deep dark circles under her eyes, wrinkles, and drooping neck. When did that ogre replace the spry young face I used to greet? There is the strange desire to cover my children with hugs and kisses, which they recoil from just as I used to when my syrupy Grandmother would do that to me. There is the drumbeat of time growing louder and louder and faster and faster, just when I finally begin to understand how precious it is, something that eluded me when it was quiet and distant and slow.

In Numbers 12:6, the Bible says ,"When a prophet of the Lord is among you, I reveal myself to him in visions, I speak to him in dreams." I certainly don't think I am a prophet but I do believe God speaks to me in dreams, and in symbols, and in the commonplace events of life. I can't make the ogre in the mirror go away, but I can help, at least a little, the starving horse. In one respect, I can help the horses like Waylin by giving money and time to HCF. I think God is directing me to do that, but that is not what my dream was about, I don't think. I think the starving horse was my soul, and it could only find sustenance from one source. I fed the horse when I found the bread of life, and realized that "they will neither hunger nor thirst....he who has compassion on them will guide them and lead them beside springs of water." Isaiah 49:10.
PS- I leave tomorrow at "way too early o'clock" for Phoenix for the wedding. My blog will probably not have new posts in that time, but when I return I hope to be funny again."

Three feet of Snow

Matt called from UVa- he would not be coming home yet from college as his car was buried under three feet of snow. In fact, it was still snowing and I suspect we may not see him til the Spring. If he had left Thursday, like I suggested..... but I am not upset or anything like that..... he would be home with his family roasting chestnuts on an open fire. Instead, he is stranded with little food, few businesses open, and a weather report that doesn't look promising despite the global warming that is frying the other parts of the world.

As if I wasn't nervous enough about my dear son driving through the treacherous mountains in winter, the forecast in our area was ominous:
"We might possibly perhaps maybe get an ice storm with the potential possibility of perceivably plausible almost likely feasible accumulation of 1- 100 inches of snow." This was a typical winter forecast in Charlotte, certain to send hordes of shoppers braving the elements for bread and toilet paper. It had double angst production for me, as I was worried about Matt ever coming home again with such dire weather forecasts, and we had to travel an hour south the next day to attend Hollow Creek Farm Open House. Since Arvo was the back up Santa, our presence was critical. How would we make it through all the ice?

However, surprisingly, not a nanosecond of snowfall materialized and the roads were clear and ice free in Charlotte this morning. We went to the open house, and my friend Roxan and I had a wonderful time walking the dogs that needed potty breaks during the festivities. As we were happily chatting and the dogs were delighted to be roaming further than their typical walks allowed, we suddenly spied a shirt on the edge of a ditch. We both slammed to a stop, and said, "That is odd." Roxan feared there might be a body somewhere near the shirt, and we nervously glanced around, but there was not. The shirt was neatly lying by the ditch, a pattern of doves all over it, and disembodied hands reaching to the doves, in prayer.

I reminded Roxan that God is always sending messages, but we so often don't understand what He is saying. At the moment, I could not for the life of me understand what this symbol might mean. However, many hours later, I realized that my Bible study that morning had been about Joseph, and how his brothers had tossed him in the well, and then brought his many colored coat back to their father to convince him that Joseph was dead. But Joseph was not dead, and went on to rise to a position of power in Egypt and ultimately save his family and the Israelites from starvation in the ensuing famine. The empty coat became a symbol of apparent disaster turned into victory and salvation.

I often assume the worst, prepare for the disaster.... and then like the anticipated ice storm, it doesn't come.
Sometimes a shirt with doves and the hand of God on it does not mean there is a dead body nearby. Sometimes it just means that someone who thought they were in the bottom of a well, are instead being prepared for a great task they never envisioned. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's you.