Fruit of the Harvest

I wandered the aisles of the vegetable section of the store. Harvest time has such a wonderful offering of fresh  fruits and vegetables- apples freshly picked from local orchards, cauliflower wrapped in their huge stiff leaves, peppers, onions, corn, coconuts...
Coconuts? Are coconuts a fall harvest fruit?
I picked up the coconut. Asherel had always wanted a coconut. She had been intrigued with coconuts even before seeing the Monty Python skit where two coconut halves are used to make the sound of horse hooves while the actor cantered around the room.  I turned the coconut over and pounded its hard shell. I had no idea how to open or use the coconut insides, but I put the coconut in my basket.

Later, Asherel passed by the coconut on the kitchen counter.
"You bought a coconut!" she cried in delight, "Why!?"
"Because I knew you wanted one and I love you. What will we make with the coconut?"
"I don't know," she said, "Can I cut it open?"
"Do you know how?"
"No."
"Well research it first."
Shortly after that she sent me a link. It listed the tools needed to open a coconut: pick, hacksaw, carving tools or sharp flexible knife.
I have always pictured coconuts as the  food of simple, indigenous people who wear skirts of grass and build huts of palm fronds. Somehow, I can't picture them with a hacksaw, as they prepare their Pina Colada.

Nonetheless, as soon as she finished school, she gathered the coconut demolition tools. First, she pierced the coconut soft spot with the pick, and drained the coconut water. Friends had advised me to drink that, but the pick had been a little dirty and a bunch of brown specks floated in the water. We dumped it. Some experts advise whacking the coconut with the back of a meat cleaver. It will split roughly in half. But Asherel wanted a clean cut for her horse imitation instrument, so she opted for the hacksaw.  Let me be the first to warn you, hacksawing a coconut in half is not as easy as you would think, which is why you don't see the indigenous grass skirted people using it. A half hour later, she had two clean halves of a very beautiful milky white centered coconut.
"Save the coconut meat," I said, "I will make something with it."
"What will you make?"
"I have no idea. I have never even seen the inside of a fresh coconut."
So next, she followed the instructions to pull the coconut meat away from the shell. At first, she had to laboriously shave away pieces, but then she reached the inside of the hard shell, pulled away a small section, and the other chunks were cleanly wedged away from the shell.

We both practiced cantering around the house, clapping the coconut halves together in the rhythm of a galloping horse. I have no rhythm, so wasn't very good, but Asherel made a creditable canter sound. I put the white insides in a bowl, and stuck them in the refrigerator. More research will be needed before I know what to do with it.

That night, I dreamt that Matt and his new wife Karissa, Asherel and I were all eating dinner at the top of a lighthouse that was perched in the ocean. The sea was violent, and the waves kept swirling higher, and then there was an explosion. The top of the lighthouse was blown into pieces and I clutched Asherel's hand as the four of us were catapulted into the raging water. I knew that we were all going to die. And then, all four of our heads popped back up above the water, and clinging to each other, we then swam safely and unharmed to shore.

I had bought the coconut remembering Asherel's younger days, and younger passions. I had also been thinking of my son Matt when he was young and how important his youthful desires seemed to him then, but all had morphed into adult dreams and goals. Long ago, my little boy Anders and I would dig "goo holes" in the sand, and believe perhaps if we dug far enough, we could reach China.  I had tried to satisfy their whims, to make their childhood magical when I could.

As I looked at the coconut, a sob had caught in my throat, thinking how fun it had all been. I miss my little children, I thought. They are all grown or nearly so. It is no longer as easy to satisfy the desires of their heart, or protect them from the disappointments or explosions of dreams.  All I can really do now is be near when I am able, and pray when I am not.

When Jesus was preparing to leave this earth, the Disciples felt abandoned. How would they make it without their leader? But He promised them, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." But He did leave their physical presence. None of us can still touch His hand, or feel His arms around us, protecting us from overwhelming waves or crumbling dreams. Still, He is there. He has not forsaken us. He is not beside us any longer, but inextricably within. Maybe, in a similar way, all those moments of joy with my little children were also being deeply imbedded in their soul, an indwelling reservoir that might buoy them to the surface when trials crashed over their head.

When the hard shell of the coconut split open, the fibrous, brown outside was starkly contrasted by the milky white of the inside. Asherel tasted a small piece of the fresh coconut.
"Mmmm, it's good," she said smiling.
Yes, I thought, what is hidden in the heart can be good, very good.

Exekial 11:
I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh. ²⁰ Then they will follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws. They will be my people, and I will be their God.

Here Comes the Sun

Asherel also said, "No one is going to know you know how to draw."
"What's wrong with this?" I asked, showing her the iPod picture, "Don't you think it looks just like me?"
She just gazed silently at me.
"Well, you can't imagine how difficult it is to draw a new picture every single day," I complained.
"If you want followers, you are going to need to draw better pictures."
"This is abstract art. Besides, I am getting bored with realism."
She again looked askance at me, as though my every word were not dripping with wisdom.
"You need to talk about something new on your blog, and you need to draw better pictures or you will lose followers."

We had returned from a bikeride to CD warehouse to scout for CDs from the 40s and 50s. We intend to fill our car with music when we pick up Comer and Evelyn from the Alzheimer unit for our Thursday outing. We had found two compilation CDs of music from that era and I was excited to see if Evelyn would know the words to all those songs. While choosing the music, a salesman came over and asked if there was anything else we might like.
Asherel is always on the prowl for the Beatle movies. She has two, and wants to collect all 5 of the movies they had made. I asked the man if they had any.
"Doubtful," he told us, but led us over to where we might find them. As we stood there gazing at the rows of CDs of which not a one was a Beatles movie, he proceeded to talk about the Beatles. He looked at me as though I might know what he was talking about, the little known tidbits of knowledge.
I pointed to Asherel, "She's the one you need to talk to. She knows everything there is to know about the Beatles." (She is hoping to graduate first in her class in Beatle Studies.)
He then proceeded to try to prove me wrong. He certainly did know a lot about the Beatles, but Asherel claims she knew every thing he mentioned.
"They were my parents' era....like yours," he said, then quickly added, "Though my parents are older than you."
"Probably," I answered.
"They were born in '53," he said, "And so they grew up on the Beatles. That was what they played when I was young, so you know how in those teenage formative years, that music stays with you."
"Yes, I was just a very little girl then," I said, since I believe "very little girl" is until the age of about 25.
Then he started branching out into discussing music from every decade, and why it was so good.  I listened to very little music, outside of the old musicals, so I was mostly lost, but nodded and said "Uhhuh" at the appropriate spots.
When we left, Asherel told me she loved talking with people about that stuff. She added that I looked a little confused as he was discussing music of each decade. Nothing gets by that girl.
"I was confused," I told her, "I mean, I had heard of all the groups he talked about, but I probably couldn't name a single song of any of them. I was too busy bike riding, and finding stray animals, and working on the farm down the street. I didn't listen to music, and I never wanted to do what everyone else was doing."
I guess I am at heart, cantankerous.
"That's the good thing about being homeschooled," she said as we biked home, "I don't have to like what everyone else likes....and I don't worry about it."
I smiled. That is one of the benefits, relieving the horrible burden of peer pressure.
"But if I ever go to public school, I will be light to the world."
At least that is what I thought she said, with the wind blowing across my ear drum. For the few seconds before I clarified that statement, I thought all my struggles, my trials as a mother, as a teacher, as an example were coming to fruition. I had a child who wanted to be "light to the world." Harps began sounding in the background, and a heavenly choir began singing, "Hallelujah!"
"Asherel, that is wonderful!"
 She looked confused.
"Mom," she asked finally, "Why do you think it is wonderful that I want to Beatle-ize the world?"
"I thought you said 'Be Light to the world'."
"No. Beatle-ize the world."

I had been on one other adventure that day. Since Asherel had the day off for Spring Break, I went to hunt for sandals that would not blister my feet. I tried several stores and held my sore feet up to salesman after salesman.
"Can you help these?" I asked. None could. They tried, but all said a narrow footed, high arched, overpronated, swollen pinky toed individual such a me was a very hard customer to please. And then I went into the expensive store, the one I don't go in unless driven to the heights of despair, or lured by a "SALE!" sign. The big letters S-A-L-E called to me from 10 miles away. As I walked in, I saw row after row of high end sandals half price. I saw one that I loved, with a molded high arch, soft leather straps, and beautiful. No  way it would fit...or be in my price range. I flipped it over. It was half off. I could afford it. He brought me the shoe and I walked around. It felt like walking on pillows.
"I"ll take it!" I gushed.
Then as I was the only one in the tiny store, I asked him how he had been.
"I thought you were closing shop, going out of business. I was surprised to see you open again."
"Well, I have had to get really lean," he said, which may have explained all those half price sandals at the height of the summer sandal buying season.
"I have been dealing with my mom. She has alzheimers." His face was lined, weary, sad.
I put the shoes in the box and looked at him, "That's hard. I have a friend with Alzheimers. We have discovered that she feels much better, more normal when we play music from her era for her. She knows all the words. Have you tried that? Sometimes those old memories from music of their childhood helps."
I found out that his mom was in a home 2 hours away. He faithfully visits once a week.
"Alot of people ask me why I bother. She doesn't know me, and they tell me she doesn't care if I am there or not."
"Oh, she cares," I said, "She may not know you as her son, but she knows you as someone who is kind and is lifting the drabness of her day, doesn't she?"
He nodded.
"You know, the hardest part is my dad just died of Alzheimers 5 years ago, and then Mom was diagnosed."
He shook his head.
"That's just not fair," I said.
"No, it isn't fair."
As I paid for the shoes, I told him, "You are doing the right thing. You will never look back with regrets."
"That is exactly it," he said, "I wouldn't want to look back when she passes and feel I had neglected her."

I had suggested music to the man with a dying mother. I had bought some shoes that might help him keep his shop open. I smiled as I thought of Asherel's statement. It wasn't much, but I was Beatle-izing the world as best I could.

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter,
Little darling, it seems like years since its been here.
Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun
And I say, it's all right..........

Psalm 23: 3-5
⁴ Even though I walk
   through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
   for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
   they comfort me.

God Makes Ice

After having the new refrigerator installed and the Home Depot man telling us that the 25 year old spigot behind the new refrigerator had never been turned on, I spent a morning calling handyman friends to offer them the small plumbing job. No one was home, and in the meantime, our icemaker was off, as the Home Depot man had warned.

For you blog followers, you know the day the fridge was delivered was also the day of my broken toe, another book rejection, and clogged garbage disposal. I think the ruined screen from Lucky using the window as a door was the next day.

"Should we put on the icemaker just to be certain the water is off?" I asked.
"Can't hurt," agreed Arvo, and he turned it on. We stood there a moment waiting for ice to plop out, but it was still and quiet in the icemaking zone. Closing our new refrigerator door, we packed up for an afternoon of kayaking. I taped my broken toe to two buddy toes instead of just one, and walked pain free.

We discovered a new creek off of the Catawba river and kayaked for an hour upstream. I felt like Lewis and Clark. After gliding by a park, the deep wide creek was silent and devoid of people. Thick forests lined the banks and huge bolders speckled the edges. My toes were propped on the bow of my kayak where I could gaze at them and thank God for 9 unbroken toes, and for the kindness of the strong toes to brace and cover for the little broken one.

When we got home, I reminded Arvo it would be wise to turn off the icemaker as the literature said if you don't have water connected, be sure the icemaker is off. There was even a return call on the phone from a friend who knew how to do this plumbing task for us. (BTW- it is not just turning on the spigot apparently... there is something in the deep dark scary crawl space below the house that needs attention.... something that might involve slithering on your belly with the snakes that assuredly are down there.)

I was busily unpacking our detritus from the day, when I heard Arvo shout, "Ice!"
I came running over to see and we both stood rapturously before our ice maker which had churned out actual lovely cubes of perfectly formed ice.

"I guess the water was on ," I said, but after 25 years of no use, it had fooled the Home Depot man into thinking it was no longer usable. Or.... was God sending me another little piece of comfort in a small miracle?

Maybe neglect, even 25 years of it, can be healed. Maybe water can gush in the desert. Maybe a broken toe can be supported and cared for by her co-workers. Maybe the storm can be stilled, the blind see, the lame walk, and the unbelieving believe. Maybe a tall refreshing glass of water with ice cubes clinking in it can be a song of angels.

Deuteronomy 8:14-16 (New International Version)

¹⁴ then your heart will become proud and you will forget the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. ¹⁵ He led you through the vast and dreadful desert, that thirsty and waterless land, with its venomous snakes and scorpions. He brought you water out of hard rock. ¹⁶ He gave you manna to eat in the desert, something your fathers had never known, to humble and to test you so that in the end it might go well with you.