Somerset: Abloom With Eventuality

Dearest friends and readers, I am forever grateful for this opportunity to contribute as a writer to the Honey Bee Press. I have long been an avid reader, so much so, in fact, I harass our mail carrier for new edition arrivals! I never desire my words to tell you what to think. I can only hope they make you ponder life and the goodness of our God in the midst of it all.

I grow so very weary of London in winter. It is such a bore. Every brick, each light post, carriage, suit… the same melancholy shade of gray. I serve faithfully beside my parents, parishioners of one of the largest churches in all the city. I am humbled to be used by Father God, in even the smallest of ways. It is a purpose-filled life. I confess, however, I positively live for the summer season. Each summer my father takes us to the countryside to live closer to his vacationing flock who, apparently, crave the fleeting sunshine and lush fields as I do.

The moment I step out of my carriage onto fresh, green grass, I run headlong to the outer edge of our hundreds-acre spread. I find myself refusing anything and everything but crisp, clean air, filling my lungs with billows of hope eternal. Father says I am a bit dramatic, but how does one express that level of excitement, awe and gratitude properly? Running through the fields is not my favorite part of the summer, however, not even close.

My favorite thing I do, or did, before our dear Mr. MacCabe passed was join him in the garden, wearing my best gardening garment and gloves. I have never been one to fear filth, especially for the cause of hard, meaty work. Mr. MacCabe was once an Irish college professor who left his profession to grow flowers and shepherd a small church in the hills. All of London was convinced he had gone quite mad, but I knew better. I understood his need to be among the flowers, the colors, the destitute homesteaders. I especially adored his way with words.

“I planted a new speculative crop this year, Sunshine,” he’d say, I assume because he was frequently experimenting. “This summer we’ll have a beauty, but as you know, that is never my goal at all. It will, additionally, be commonsensical and unintentional, experimental, and abloom with eventuality!”

I understood him well, but I suspected my father or Shakespeare might have understood him better. Nevertheless, I kept up with him as he planted all sorts of wild and wonderful things, many having led to unfortunate ends. He kept a written account of all his successes, but mostly his failures.

Field beans failed to sprout despite copious amounts of rain … Maize failed to produce ample kernels per cob … Turnip rapes eaten by bugs …

Perhaps my favorite thing about that devoted, quirky man was his inability to be daunted. He failed at crops more times than not, yet he found such joy in the process of finding out what worked and what would never bring him fruitful satisfaction. Perhaps that was his satisfaction, the perpetual challenge of it all. I suspect true satisfaction could never be found with any less focus or daily devotion than that given by Mr. MacCabe.

London life, for me, is a little less like a laboratory and more like a mortuary. Regardless of the season or place I find myself, though, I am learning how to be more like my red-haired, passionate cultivator.

My life, whether it be in the gray or the green, is a beautiful garden of people, filled with promise. It is also a laboratory of finding out what works and what does not work for these individuals. My parents and I, too, have “planted” many seeds of hope in the lives of others. Many have, poorly, failed to bloom. We have planted some truths into lives void of knowledge, only to see them eaten by nasty little “bugs.” Yet, we have also learned along the way, the simplistic formulas of what works and what lasts.

I am not as daunted as I was two years ago, or even five years ago. If anything, I am encouraged and look expectantly at each person or task before me as a wondrous laboratory experiment. I anticipate the glorious, or not so glorious, results with the candor of a schoolgirl in full bloom.

I walk through my little garden, fingertips out just so, touching the tips of petals as I float by them. Deep down, I know some will die. I know there is a possibility only one or two will survive the winter, returning next year. Yet, I water them all the same because I cannot see what is transpiring beneath the ground. I never know which little soul will sprout, which will thrive, or which will be eaten. or wilt.

I only know it is God’s job to shine, it is the Bible’s job to anchor, and it is my job to water with love and reap a living harvest… as best one can in an imperfect world.

I hope my contributions to your thoughts in days to come will bless all of you, water you. I have no doubt I may be quite repetitious in my writings at times. Holy Spirit often drops trinkets of wisdom into my soul, overflowing my capacity to hold it all in. I also noticed He repeats Himself a lot! Maybe I’m a slow learner. I’ve learned He is gracious and kind, and He will not give us something more until we share what He has already given us. Therefore, I treasure this opportunity to share what He’s lovingly shown me. I hope you will take each word written this year as a loving letter from Him, guiding us all towards higher thinking.

I leave you with these questions to ponder: In what ways have I allowed the gray fog around me to blind me to the fun of the everyday experiment before me? In what ways have I lost hope or joy in the expectation that what I have planted will, indeed, produce a ripe harvest one day? Am I allowing my winter troubles to define how I behave in the summer seasons of my life? Inside of whom can I plant a seed of happy hope today? How can I water those seeds in days to come? And, finally, am I only focused on an end result, or am I taking the time to truly enjoy the person or people Father God places in front of me?

Until next time, my thoughts and prayers are with you, and I look forward to hearing from you if you have any thoughts or comments you would like to share. Selah.