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Identity Confusion . . . in the barnyard

I stand at the gate to the barnyard and giggle. I have called and they are coming, rushing up the hillside from the pasture. The chickens are always first, assisting their little legs with flapping wings. Then comes Buck, the goat, running and bleating loudly. Donk, not wanting to look too eager, takes his time, stopping occasionally to check out the reason for being called away from his dinner of grasses. And then comes Jemima, the duck, quacking loudly and waddling as fast as she can, but far behind the barnyard crowd.

Jemima is the one who tickles me. She, in no way, can compete with the others . . . on dry land.  I did notice her jump into her little swimming pool one day when the chickens approached to get a drink. Facing them and moving around the little pool to ward off their approach, she was definitely the queen of the pool. But, on dry land, she is the bottom of the pecking order.

She seems to be in confusion, though, as to who she is. Mostly she identifies with the goat. She works hard to stay by his side but gets left behind all too often   She would also like to hang out with the chickens who systematically reject her. She is not quite sure how to be one of them.  I know and the other barnyard occupants know, she is a duck and will always be a duck.

I find it hard to identify with her dilemma. There is something about reality that we cannot change: a duck is a duck. I feel for her. I may get another duck to help her with her identity problem, but as she matures and becomes content with her own clumsy webbed feet (that can paddle very nicely in the pool), her love for rain when the others run for cover, her ability to scoff up more grain than the chickens with her rounded beak, she just might be happy being a duck.

 

 

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A Confession

I confess I have acquiesced to something I never thought I would. Yes, Donq stands alone in the barnyard today accompanied only by two red hens.

For several months, since we had placed the chicken house inside the barnyard to protect my two red hens, I have had to protect myself from the ire of one of the other occupants, Goatie Oatie.

When I shut the chickens in the hen house one evening, Goatie seemed to think that I was giving them special attention and he wanted his share. With a little jump and a toss of his head, he warned me that he wasn’t happy.

As the days went by, his threats became more physical, and I had to carry a stick or a whip to remind him to keep his distance.

Finally, one morning, he had cornered me in the donkey stall, ramming, butting, and threatening. The stick in my hand was breaking into pieces, and he was showing no signs of backing off. My legs were throbbing from where his horn had contacted its target. Thankfully, Dan, returning from his morning prayer walk, saw my predicament. Climbing the fence, he managed to grab Goatie’s horn, allowing me to slip out of the pen.

Years ago, the creature-lover that I am, would have found a way to accommodate his naughty behavior. However, in this somewhat fragile, old-aged body, I could find no alternative. To give him away would not be kind. I would never be able to justify the harm he might bring to others.

And so, Goatie Oatie went to his doom.

Alas, in my retirement years I am finding that hard decisions must be made. May I remember the good years and find grace and determination when decisions must be made.

I confess: I ordered the end of Goatie Oatie’s life.

I also confess:  this stage of life has given me pause to think of the bigger decisions that must be made in the backyard of our community and world.

Must we acquiesce to the badgering and “ramming” of our society? Are we allowed to say “enough” when our rights have been trampled? Must we stay silent or be accused as bigots, racists, homophobes, xenophobes if we take positions that are truthful and loving?

I loved Goatie Oatie. I fed him, talked to him, got him his necessary shots, even took him for an occasional walk; however, his aggressive behavior I could not tolerate. It had become oppressive and dangerous. 

Perhaps, righteous indignation has overcome my sense of tolerance in greater areas of my life. May God give me the grace to find the necessary words and actions to defend my rights as an evangelical Christian today.

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A Sad Confession

I confess I have acquiesced to something I never thought I would. Yes, Donq stands alone in the barnyard today accompanied only by two red hens.

For several months, since we had placed the chicken house inside the barnyard to protect my two red hens, I have had to protect myself from the ire of one of the other occupants, Goatie Oatie.

When I shut the chickens in the hen house one evening, Goatie seemed to think that I was giving them special attention and he wanted his share. With a little jump and a toss of his head, he warned me that he wasn’t happy.

As the days went by, his threats became more physical.  I had to carry a stick or a whip to remind him to keep his distance.

Finally, one morning, he had cornered me in the donkey stall, ramming, butting, and threatening My legs were throbbing from where his horn had made contact. The stick in my hand was breaking into pieces, and he was showing no signs of backing off. I called loudly to my son, Dan, who was returning from his morning prayer walk Catching a glimpse of my predicament, Dad hopped the fence and managed to grab Goatie’s horn. With great relief, I slipped out of the pen.

Years ago, the creature-lover that I am would have found a way to accommodate his naughty behavior. However, in this somewhat fragile, old-aged body, I could find no alternative. To give him away would not be kind. I would never be able to justify the harm he might bring to others.

And so,  Goatie Oatie went to his doom.

I confess: I ordered the end of Goatie Oatie’s life.

I also confess: this stage of life has also given me pause to think of the hard decisions that must be made in the backyard of our community and world.

Must we acquiesce to the badgering and “ramming” of our society? Are we allowed to say “enough” when our rights have been trampled? Must we stay silent or be accused as bigots, racists, homophobes if we speak our minds?

I loved Goatie Oatie. I fed him, talked to him, got him his necessary shots, even took him for an occasional walk. But, his aggressive behavior I could not tolerate. It had become oppressive and dangerous. 

Perhaps, righteous indignation has overcome my sense of tolerance in other areas of my life, and I am finding it necessary to use words, instead of sticks, to defend my rights as an evangelical Christian today.

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One Hundred Years!!

I think it was the stately old barn  that convinced us to buy the farm. Its age held a nostalgic appeal to Judd and me Though its old red paint had faded to gray,  the barn stood steady and strong under the    weight of hundreds of sweet-smelling hay piled on its top floor.

As the local farmers came to reclaim the hay they had bought, the walls began to reveal not just cobwebs and dust, but memories: old harnesses, tools, and memorabilia. Painted  on the south-east wall was a number: (1918).

The significance of the number was a mystery, until Judd visited one day with old Chappy.  Chapman’s Gas  Station was located on the main road through Keats. If you wanted to know what was happening in the area, you went to Chappy’s, bought a soda from the soda machine,  sat on the bench, and leaned against the outside wall. Chappy, with his pipe in hand, knew all the news of the neighborhood. He also knew the history of Keats. Sitting down beside you, or simply leaning against the wall, he gave us both news and history.

It was through Chappy that we learned the mystery of the date we found painted in the barn.  “I remember my dad talking about how he and others from Keats were putting the roof on that old barn the day that they learned that the Armistice was signed to end the war,” Chappy recounted. That would be a day that we still celebrate: Armistice Day, 1918.

My father was in France on that same day, celebrating with his battalion.

A war,  a soldier, a barn, and residents of Keats, Kansas celebrating with each pound of their hammers up on that tall barn on Kitten Creek Road. History all tied together one hundred years ago!

 

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A Wedding in the Walnut Grove

A wedding! The third grandchild ( third child of Dan and Nancy) is now creating a new limb to our family tree. Lillian and Shiloh’s story goes back ten or eleven years ago when the Brock and Swihart family first met. Even then, it seems, there were sparks. But little did they express that interest until just a few months ago. What joy it was to celebrate their wedding with them. Lillian carried flowers that she had grown in her garden; we shared cherry pie that she and her friends had baked; and the couple drove off in a vehicle that Shiloh and his friends had  “constructed.” Creativity abounds in this couple.

Marriage. God’s plan.  The two become one. And the story grows.

Judd and I are celebrating our 50th this year. We were once the bride and groom creating a limb on the Noble Swihart tree. We had no idea those many years ago how our story would unfold. At this wedding in the walnut grove we held our two great-grandchildren.

Along with a new grand-daughter, Sophie (Derrick and Carrie’s first baby), the joys of babies  and marriage fill our hearts.

 

For the moment, God has wrapped us in a cocoon of contentment.

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Re-Collecting in the Pasture

Today I needed to walk the old familiar trail in the pasture again.The thoughts and feelings swirling in my mind and heart were and are disconcerting. Thirty-eight years ago, this pasture was new to me. My body was younger. I was filled with anticipation of what could be, Things in the world were . . . just different. Yes, we were on a down-swing in our culture, but there was hope of changing it.

Yesterday we were young, God was with us, we could carry out the vision under God’s direction. We were a community with one heart.

Today, we are not so young. Our  community living here is of one heart. Our old community is a little splintered. Some have gone left, some have stayed right.

Why do divisions occur? That is my conundrum today. When we are guided by the same Spirit, should we not be of one mind?

Perhaps the enemy is not us, but the Enemy who uses our weaknesses, our blind spots, our idols and will exploits them to weaken the Body of Christ. We can defend what we FEEL  is right. We can stake our lives on what we have figured out. (The wisdom of man is foolishness with God, we are told.) Thus, we can lose sight of the most important, become divided,  and lose the battle.

As I  left the pasture and headed back home I noticed the Troyer’s chickens were beginning to bed down for the night. The sun had gone over the hill on their side  the road. Lining up side-by-side on a post in the barn, they were announcing that it was time to roost. My chickens were far  from the hill, and the sun was still shining where they were. They were continuing to wander around looking for more food. Eventually, the sun will go behind the hill for them, also, and they will go into their pen for the night.

It’s just a matter of time.

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New Updates From the Farm

 Woo hoo!!! Three new babies in the Swihart family as of today. In the last nine weeks we have received these little answers to prayer: one grand child and two great-grands! I had to search to find a picture that would illustrate these three, since they have not been together, yet.

The black-haired baby is the one we are waiting for at this moment. This is just a guess, but I am SURE he/she will have a head of black hair like her/his momma and daddy did. The other two babies, Sophie (Derrick and Carrie), and Lydia (Jena and EJ) have light brown hair. Thus, the pic.

And if that is not enough to celebrate,  our grand daughter #2 will be married to a wonderful young man in a couple of weeks. Their wedding will be in the grove of trees that Dan planted when they first moved to the farm. Lovely!!!!!

Oh, how I would love to hold these moments and make them slow down a little. But, that is why God gave us the gift of memory isn’t it?

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Who Am I? #2

“You need to write a song!” These words coming in Messenger from a nephew startled me. “Who? I don’t write songs!” I wrote back.

“Yes,” he replied. “You.” He proceeded to give me some of his reasons and suggestions.

Both he and his young son have been involved in bands and gigs. They were looking for words that my grand-nephew could put to music for his next gig at The Hard Rock Cafe in their city.

Gazing at Steve’s Facebook picture I tried to see the little boy I once knew. Yes, behind the long gray hair and the white beard I still could see a semblance of that little boy. That sweet three-years-old  boy self-consciously walking down the aisle toward Judd and me carrying a white lace pillow. That gentle little boy sitting on the porch step at Grandma’s house cradling a fluffy gray kitten. That sensitive fun-loving little boy now grown into a man.

Yes, I can write down memories and dreams laced with hope and promises. These words are for you, Steve!

Who Am I?

Just a child full of wonder

In a multi-colored world

Dancing, skipping, laughing

Life is safe, secure, and warm.

Chorus

Set me dancing, skipping, laughing

 In this multi-colored world

Lift my heart to hear the music

To the Mystery of Life.

 

Just a young man reaching out

To a crafty, luring world.

Testing, tasting, and still laughing

Life’s beguiling work’s begun.

 

Just an old man losing foothold

In a crazy, mixed-up world.

Mystified, his search is muddled

For the wonder he once knew.

 

Renovation, renovation

In this old decrepit soul.

Can the potter change this vessel?

Can the child be restored?

Chorus

Set me dancing, skipping, laughing

 In this multi-colored world

Lift my heart to hear the music

To the Mystery of Life.

 

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Who Am I?

 

Let’s begin with someone who we all think WE know, but who wrestled with the same questions we may have at times:

Who Am I? by Deitrich Bonhoeffer

Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a Squire from his country house.

Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As thought it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectations of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!

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It’s the Thought That Counts by Jan Coles

All kinds of thoughts can occur to me when I open a gift

How thoughtful!

That is so nice of her to think of me.

I think I already have one of these.

I think I told him I don’t like these.

What made him think I’d like this?

What was she thinking?

Among the gifts my husband and I received as wedding presents was a large, blue glass bowl from his Aunt Ellen. His artistic, eclectic Aunt Ellen. The bowl was, well, um, shall we say, unusual.

The depression of the bowl had a diameter of about eight inches and was about four inches deep. The flanges around the rim of the bowl doubled its overall size. Ridges that looked like mountain ranges protruded from the bottom. (You can see a picture of it here: http://www.blenkocollectors.com/specialtylinepages/blenkocollcolorbigsky.htm)

What was Aunt Ellen thinking?

The bowl was too big to fit in a cupboard. It was too fragile to put in a closet or under the bed. It was too big to set out as “decor,” since our dining table did double duty as a desk. We joked that it couldn’t even be used as a bed pan because of the ridges in the bottom of the bowl. In short, the bowl was useless. And to be honest, we thought it was ugly. So we did what newly-married college students do with a wedding gift they don’t want: return it and buy something else.

Our quest to return The Blue Bowl (yes, we did name the bowl), was not an easy one. It seemed that none of the stores we went to sold anything like The Blue Bowl. The reactions varied:

“No, we don’t sell anything like that.”

“Hmmm, I’m not sure what store that may have come from,” trying to appear helpful.

“You say you got this as a wedding gift?” attempting to hide a puzzled smile. 

“Um, I’ve never seen anything like that here,” stifling a giggle.

“What on earth is that?!” accompanied by peals of laughter.

After a few stores, the task of finding a place to return the bowl turned into a game. The more places we went to, the more incredulous looks and comments we received, the funnier the game. We laughed with the clerks as they tried to help us figure out which store we could try next.

So it was with smirks ready that we approached the clerk in the china department at Frederick & Nelsons. “Oh!” she gasped, “You want to return a Blenko Original?!”

“Well, yeah,” I began. “It’s pretty ug…,” Stepping slightly in front of me, Brian stopped me with a more gracious response: “It doesn’t really fit our decor.” Anything worth more than $15 didn’t fit in with our decor.

The astonished clerk finished the paperwork to return the bowl and we left with $35, about $75 in today’s money. “Not much for a Blenko Original,” I remarked to Brian as we left the china department.

Then a funny thing happened. I didn’t want to sell the bowl back to the store! We had so much fun trying to return the bowl that we actually enjoyed, in a twisted sort of way, owning the bowl. I wanted to run back and tell the clerk I’d changed my mind and wanted the bowl back. Suddenly I realized the bowl wasn’t worthless.

As kids we expectantly opened boxes adorned with bows and colored paper on Christmas and on our birthdays. Sometimes we were disappointed, like when my great aunt sent me slippers she had crocheted using pink, scratchy yarn. “It’s the thought that counts,” my dad said. “Your aunt made these for you because she loves you.” To which my eight-year-old mind responded, “If she loved me she would know I hate pink!”

But I’m beginning to wonder what it really means when we say, “It’s the thought that counts.” Certainly Aunt Ellen had thought about whether we would appreciate and enjoy The Blue Bowl. The problem was what we thought. We were too busy thinking about what we wanted. The Blue Bowl had little value to us when we looked at it with our own expectations and desires.

We hear a lot about God giving each of us special gifts: an ear for music, a great singing voice, insightful teaching, an ability to be an encourager, etc. I wish I had one of those special gifts. I want gifts that are useful to others, gifts that people can see. I think we all do.

Unfortunately, I often think any gifts he has given me aren’t the good ones. They’re gifts that don’t seem useful or special. They are undesirable because I have expectations about exactly what a special gift from God really is.

The real problem is that I fail to see these gifts as gifts born out of love. I don’t want them because they aren’t exciting or fun or obvious or what I deem useful. They’re like The Blue Bowl: ugly and unwanted. So I’m busy “taking them back to the store” to try to exchange them for something more exciting. Something that will capture my attention. Something that will attract others to me.

The reality is that not all gifts are obvious and exciting. To use an old expression, where would the blossom be without the stem? Whereas I’d much rather be the blossom, God’s given me the gift of being the stem. It’s not what I want, but it’s what is needed.

God’s not in the business of handing out gifts without thinking about the recipient. I’m convinced he thinks a lot about it. But the gifts he gives aren’t useful to us until we see the value of them. Until we think about them the way he thinks about them.

I think my dad was right. It is the thought that counts.