Earth Day and new life in all its forms

 Today is Earth Day and I spent the morning on my knees. No, I wasn’t worshiping Mother Earth. I was weeding the garden.

Hal and I got our first plot in the community garden last year. We enjoyed being part of the garden family, all the residents who cultivate plots. We have good fellowship as we weed, plant, water, etc., and eventually harvest. I especially enjoyed watching the first sprouts break the surface. For some reason it surprised me. When planting the seeds, I had found it hard to believe anything would come of it. That reflects my lack of experience as a gardener.

In spite of our enjoyment, we had our doubts as to whether we could keep it up another year. Hal’s back gives him fits and he tends to overdo any task he commits to. So last year involved a lot of back pain. And I’m perpetually dizzy, although I find that being surrounded by dirt and green stuff actually calms my head. We had half decided to give up our plot this year when a friend talked us into dividing it and taking responsibility for only half. That didn’t sound so overwhelming so we agreed. Our revised space is eight by 16 feet, give or take a little. That’s enough for a rim of flowers with some veggies in the middle.

Right now we’re weeding, hoeing, and turning the soil, getting ready for the planting phase. We’ll know when that is by watching our neighbors and doing likewise. Of course, we can always ask questions.

Earth Day became an official holiday in March 1970 when U Thant, UN Secretary General, signed a proclamation to launch a day to honor the earth and commit to caring for it. Some say this was the beginning of the present environmental movement that advocates the conservation and restoration of the earth’s resources. On this day people around the globe participate in projects like cleaning up rubbish, planting trees, and educating children about the wonders of nature. It’s good.

Currently I’m reading a book called The Book of Nature: The Astonishing Beauty of God’s First Sacred Text by Barbara Mahany (2023). Mahany claims that God communicates with us in two basic ways: through creation (the first sacred text) and through his written word (for Christians, the Bible). Her book focuses on how creation speaks, with reflections on different aspects of nature (woods, water’s edge, birds, first snow, dawn, and so on). It’s well written and very inspiring.

This morning, appropriately, I read the chapter entitled “Garden.” She avoids getting too mushy and mystical about it all, which I found to be a relief. Gardening is a hard, sweaty business and Mahany addresses that aspect. Even so, God speaks through a garden:

It’s mighty hard not to believe, when tucking in a seed, sprinkling it day after day with your watering can, and catching sight, glorious sight, of that first hint of newborn green pushing through the earth. To plant a seed, to bury a bulb, is to practice resurrection gardening. And to watch in real time how faith works. Some of us need to rub it between our fingertips, to get its dirt struck under our nails.

“Resurrection gardening.” I like the sound of that. I’ll have to repeat that phrase tomorrow morning when I again fall to my knees in the dirt.

And speaking of something marvelous and newborn pushing through barriers to reach the air, since writing my last blog, something happened that is better than crocuses, daffodils, and cucumbers! FINN ALEXANDER BECKER was born! I became a first-time GREAT GRANDMOTHER! My granddaughter Bree and her husband Jade did a great job getting him born. Or so they tell me. I have not yet met this little person, but I’ve seen photos and, believe me, he is better looking than a cucumber! Or a daffodil. I’m finding this miracle is worth getting mushy and mystical over.

A new human being. Born into a family that will love, protect, and nurture him. Like a gardener tending her garden. Like God watching over his creation, including all the people made in his image, set on the earth to love, protect, and nurture it. And we do it for all the Finn Alexanders who one day will also cherish the earth.

Hurrah for Earth Day!

Hurrah for gardens!

Hurrah for Finn Alexander and all miracle babies!

It makes all the weeding seem worth it.

Writing down the small stuff

 I’ve been teaching a series of classes on “Writing Your Life Stories.” The class is mostly older adults, each with a lifetime of experiences and memories. These experiences and memories comprise a legacy to pass down to grandchildren, friends, even organizations and churches.

Since the idea of writing a memoir or autobiography can be daunting, I’ve been emphasizing the small stuff, memories of single events or relationships that even now evoke a smile, a laugh, or a grimace. Stuff you wish your brand-new great grandson would know about you someday, so he could smile, laugh or grimace along with you. So he could know you.

Small stuff can be a response to a prompt: “The time my prank got me into big trouble,” “The ugliest clothes I ever wore,” “My most interesting job,” “What I learned from my dad,” “When God answered my prayer,” “The time I thought I’d lose my life,” “How I met my husband/wife.” And so on. You get the idea. Small stuff includes the funny stories you tell time and again in family reunions. Those are stories worth writing down.

One idea I gave was that of writing a series of stories around a certain theme. I shared my friend’s collection of stories of his encounters with animals. Gary has traveled widely, so the stories included lions, as well as local critters—deer, birds, and the owl that stole his hat from off his head. He put these stories into a book (shutterfly.com) that included photographs and gave one to each of his grandkids.

Another friend read in class one of the stories from his collection of times God answered a prayer.

That gave me inspiration to begin making my own collection.

I’ve been reading through my old journals, being inspired, entertained, and appalled at things in my past. Some experiences I definitely want my descendants to know. A few pages I tore out and shredded. But overall, I’ve been delighted to stand back and see the growth. Among other things, I’ve recognized patterns in my relationship with God and ways he has touched my life.

So I decided to write stories about ways God has spoken to me—specific messages in concrete situations. Part of what interests me are all the different ways God has spoken: through dreams and visions, through a Bible passage, through a prophetic word, through a discerning friend or family member, through a circumstance that acted as a sign, through a Quaker meeting for clearness, and through a talking donkey (just kidding about that last one—although it’s in the Bible). Often God has spoken through an inward nudge or sense. Holy intuition.

Not that I aways get the message right. I’m human and make mistakes. Sometimes a “message” doesn’t come from God. Even so, I’m listening and hopefully practice is giving me more discernment.

Anyway, I’ve got the stories and I’m typing them from my journals into a folder.

My journals are full of dreams. I don’t remember most of my dreams; often I wake up and try to capture a dream, but it flies out of reach and disappears. But some dreams stick around after I wake up, and I pay attention to those dreams. I write them down. Not all are to be considered messages from God. Probably most of them come from my subconscious mind and indicate a fear to be faced or some unresolved issue. These are helpful.

Sometimes God does speak through a dream. I’ve found a number of these in my journals. I’ll share one here. It’s “small stuff,” really, but it encouraged me at the time. If I were to give it a title, I’d call it “The Pooping Baby Dream.”

Background: It was 1999 and Hal and I had recently moved to Santa Cruz, Bolivia at the invitation of the Bolivian Evangelical University to begin a masters program in missions. We arrived excited, ready to work. We were assigned a team of interested faculty members and together began to design the program. But we soon ran into roadblocks, and disagreements with university personnel.

Bolivia is a lovely country, but it comes gift-wrapped in red tape. Even in a Christian university. Administrative hassles, squabbling between academic departments, requirements we didn’t understand, and so on. I guess this stuff is normal in institutions, Christian or not. To add to our difficulties, in order for the degree we would offer to be recognized, the Bolivian government had a long and complex process of legalization.

We grew weary and at one point questioned our call to this task.

The Dream: In my dream I had given birth to a new baby. She was beautiful, healthy, and big—the size of a three-month old at birth. She was smiling, cooing, eating applesauce, shaking her rattle. A very accomplished new-born. We loved her and she responded to us.

The only problem was that she was a super-pooper. Much more than normal. As soon as we changed her, she would fill up her diaper again. And each time, the poop made her heavy. She was hard to hold with all that weight. And of course it was all very messy. I don’t really want to describe that part, so I won’t.

But we loved her dearly and recognized her as a gift from God, in spite of the inconvenience of constant diaper duty. Hal assured me that she would outgrow it in time.

The Interpretation: I woke up laughing. Hal was already awake, so I told him the dream. His response surprised me. “Nancy! Don’t you see what God is telling us?!!!”

Well, no. I didn’t see it at all. It was just a funny and strange dream.

Hal went on to explain what had been instantly obvious to him, that God was encouraging us. He was saying that giving birth to something new and good was naturally a messy process. It was normal. We needed to cherish the gift of this opportunity, proceed through all the mess, and have faith that it would all work out in the end.

We both lay in bed laughing and praising God.

And it did work out in the end, but that’s another story.

I’m hoping that my collection of stories of God speaking can be an encouragement to other people someday, and occasionally give them something to laugh about. I’m glad God has a sense of humor.

Cherish the small stuff. Write it down.

What little children teach us about love

 We older people are supposed to be the ones with wisdom that we then pass down to younger generations. In many cases, that’s true, although being old doesn’t automatically bring wisdom in its wake.

Sometimes we forget that wisdom often comes from young people, even children. Wise old people know this. They know when to speak and when to listen. They know how to listen to children.

Recently my sister Becky sent me a list from a Facebook site called something like “Heart-warming.” I don’t often gravitate toward heart-warming stuff, like Hallmark greeting cards, but I trust my sister’s good taste. So I read it, liked it a lot, and will now pass it on to you.

A group of professional people posed an interesting question to children between the ages of four and eight. (The survey didn’t say what profession these professionals represented; they could have been plumbers or bee-keepers; they were probably some kind of social scientists. This information is important, but I’ll forward the results to you anyway.) The question was, “What does love mean?” Here are some of the answers:

 

"When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore.... So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love.” Rebecca—age 8

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.” Billy—age 4

“Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.” Karl—age 5

“Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.” Chrissy—age 6

“Love is what makes you smile when you're tired.” Terri—age 4

“Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.” Danny—age 8

“Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and just listen.” Bobby—age 7 (Wow!)

“If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate.” Nikka—age 6 (We need a few million more Nikkas on this planet.)

“Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it every day.” Noelle—age 7

“Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.” Tommy—age 6

“During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn't scared anymore.” Cindy—age 8

“My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.” Clare—age 6

“Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken.” Elaine—age 5

“Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.” Chris—age 7

“Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.” Mary Ann—age 4

“I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.” Lauren—age 4

“When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.” (What an image!) Karen—age 7

“Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn't think it's gross.” Mark—age 6

“You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.” Jessica—age 8

And the final one: The winner was a four-year-old child whose next-door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, “Nothing, I just helped him cry.”

 

See what I mean about wise children? I notice that their definitions were all concrete—actions, demonstrations of love. Nothing abstract. There’s wisdom in that.

Sometime this week, if you can, have a conversation with a child you know. Listen more than you speak. Then do it every week.

Here are some photos of grandparents hanging out some wise little kids:

New life in old rocks

 A few weeks ago, Hal and I took one of our retirement community’s field trips, this time to the Rice Museum of Rocks and Minerals. We were just a small group on the bus that morning, six dedicated rock hounds and several staff members. The ride itself took us through beautiful Oregon farm country. The museum is located in a large field outside the city of Hillsboro, appropriate for a natural history museum.

The several buildings themselves are lovely, constructed of Oregon wood and rocks. According to their website, “the museum showcases not just rocks and minerals, but also fossils, meteorites, lapidary art, and gemstones from both the Pacific Northwest and all around the world.”

The name “Oregon” usually makes me think of God’s beauty shouting from the trees, mountains, and oceans. But this experience reminded me that God’s splendor sometimes hides under the earth. The displays fascinated me. I especially loved the petrified wood examples, slices of incredible creativity. And the crystals, of course, and the thunder eggs, and lacy fern fossils, all invited our admiration.

I walked around slowly, but not nearly as slowly as Hal did. (That’s always the way with us in museums.) He paused to read each description and look intently at each specimen. He didn’t make it all the way through the museum before it was time to board the bus and head home. (I had made it to every display, with time left over to rest.)

Hal is a true rock hound, while I just like to look at and handle pretty rocks. He collected rocks since he was a little kid growing up in Eastern Washington, a rock-rich region. At one point he decided he wanted to be a geologist when he grew up. But that was not to be.

He had to leave his rocks at home when he went off to college. That was hard. God took his life in another direction. We went to build a new life in Bolivia in 1972, and he discovered that land to be another rock-rich place. He enjoyed taking our kids rock hunting on the Bolivian altiplano, occasionally finding fossils and arrowheads. We found a favorite rocky valley between two hills that we named Amethyst Valley for the many small purple gems hidden near the surface.

I don’t think he ever regretted giving up his dream to become a geologist and instead follow God in Christian service to Bolivia. But he never gave up his love of rocks.

Years ago I wrote this poem for him:

To a Would-Be Geologist
(Turned Missionary)

To scrounge the soil and bring up rough treasure,
to extract earth’s secrets from glacier and volcano,
to study the strata, measure the masses,

then line the evidence on shelves, catalogued
(agate, obsidian, soapstone, shale):
this was light to you and life. But now,

rather than rocks, you’ve put your dreams
on the shelf, chosen to dig on different
ground. Instead of the concreteness of

excavations, labs, and lecture halls, you wrestle
the tougher intangibles of spirit and soul.
Instead of hypotheses, you make disciples,

and the mountains you tunnel now
only faith can move. Maybe someday,
you say, you’ll collect kingdom gems, classify

crystal near the throne. Perhaps. Today’s obedience
treads another turf. But your labor adds living stones
to the Temple. The Rock of Ages holds you fast.

 

Here are some photos I took in the Rice Museum:

Petrified Elm

                                                           Rhodochrosite 

                                                Wulfinite

Fossil Fern

Bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights: Easter is coming

 This is Holy Week, that time when the Christian church remembers its foundations in the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. We have many ways of remembering and celebrating this season.

Here in the retirement community, the Market Place has announced a special Holy Week sale, and highlights three items at good prices: bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights. An interesting combination.

The Market Place is a small convenience and variety store, run by residents and stocked with practical stuff like toilet paper, toothpaste, aspirins, and Snickers bars. It comes in handy when I realize at the last moment that I need a birthday card.

The list of Easter specials—bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights—reminds me of those tests that have you read a list (or look at pictures—an apple, a banana, and a pencil, for example) and say which item doesn’t fit. With the Easter sale list, that’s easy. The bunnies don’t fit. Both the emergency lights and the chocolate are helpful in facing danger and trauma. The bunnies, not so much.

This reminds me of the delightful customs of Easter I grew up with. I remember my first Easter egg hunt, mostly because I did it wrong and got in trouble. I was three-years-old and my parents brought me to a community hunt. The little kids, the one and two-year-olds, were supposed to go first through the gate and into the garden. But as soon as the gate opened, I ran in, ahead of everyone. I wasn’t really greedy, just excited. (I don’t actually remember my motives. I’m guessing.) My parents had to rush in, pick me up, and carry me back in front of everyone. I remember it and feel a stab of shame even now, although I don’t think it’s scarred me for life.

All the other Easter egg hunts in my childhood were positive. We three kids anticipated it, received our baskets with excitement, and ran around in the yard like rabbits, looking under every leaf and bush. I do remember some disappointment when the loot was mostly hardboiled eggs, with one small chocolate bunny that turned out to be hollow in the middle. But, other than that, it was the highlight of Easter. (My folks weren’t that into church in those days.)

We carried on the custom with our kids. One of the most fun parts was the afternoon we spent together coloring the eggs, dipping them into bowls of colored water and painting faces or stripes on them. Of course, that killed the myth of the Easter Bunny, but that was fine with us. We still had fun hiding the eggs and the kids finding them. With a few surprise chocolate rabbits thrown in.

Here on our floor in the retirement community, residents have decorated their apartment entrances for the Easter season. Lots of rabbits, chicks, and eggs. It’s cheery and spring-like, if not particularly holy.

Aside from the colorful cultural customs of Easter, and running deeper, the events of Holy Week so many years ago continue to be relevant. Many of us are following the footsteps of Jesus day by day on his journey to the cross, and then, the resurrection. The devotional app I’m following calls the whole season of Lent one of a “bright sadness.” Sorrow and joy mingle in our reflections. This is the bedrock of our faith.

May the Spirit be with you as you walk slowly through this week.

Even if you are accompanied by bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights.

Seasoned traveler

In 2019, after a trip to Bolivia to celebrate the 100^th anniversary of the Bolivian Friends Church, Hal and I decided that we would take no more long international trips. We needed to face the fact that our aging bodies were no longer up to the challenges of 24-hour flight schedules, heavy suitcases, long lines, connecting flights in strange airports, customs, and all the other stresses of travel that we once considered an adventure.

Then last year we received an invitation to travel to Panama for the 20^th anniversary celebration of an educational program we helped found and worked in for 14 years, up to our retirement. All the graduates of the program (some 50 Latin American Christian leaders, now with their PhD in hand), faculty, and staff (past and present) were invited. We love these people and have invested a good part of our lives in them. Being together again after ten years and celebrating God’s goodness—well, it tempted us to give up our no-more-travel decision and we committed to the trip. (I wrote about all this in an earlier blog—February 20.)

We then wrestled with the physical reality of Hal’s back problems, problems that would make the trip challenging at best. We wondered if we might need to cancel the trip, but we decided to go ahead. Hal continued with his physical therapy and we bought prescription pain pills, just in case.

The morning of the flight, our bags were packed and waiting by the door. At 2:15 a.m., the alarm went off. Hal, already up, sat on the side of the bed and told me of the pain in his stomach. We knew what that meant—the onset of diverticulitis, a condition Hal faces several times a year. We’ve learned what to do to avoid a trip to the ER: rest, drink lots of water, use Metamucil. This usually leads to healing. We also know what not to do: get on an airplane.

With sinking hearts, we considered our options: cancel both our tickets or have me travel alone. Our son, who was driving us to the airport, offered to take Hal’s ticket and accompany me on the trip. Both Hal and David were concerned about me traveling alone with my chronic dizziness. We finally discerned that it was important that I go and represent both of us in the celebration, that Hal would be well taken-care of here. We felt peace. So I quickly repacked my bag (I didn’t need to take Hal’s underwear and PJs along), kissed my husband goodbye, and left with David, an hour later than we had planned.

The trip proved to be insightful on what it means to travel as an aging person. Once in the Portland Airport, after saying goodbye to David, I began feeling the excitement of the trip. The pre-boarding process was familiar and a sense of independence was rising up. I enjoyed it. With a new twist. I discovered at the ticket counter that I could pre-board as a “disabled person.” The label bothered me, but I thought, “Why not?” Since I have this weird physical challenge, why not milk it for any benefit I can get?

So when the announcement was made for those in wheelchairs or with canes to come forward to pre-board, I joined the line with a bit of uneasiness. I made my walking stick obviously visible. But the boarding official didn’t ask for a letter from my doctor or any kind of proof of my condition. She believed me. So I boarded before families with small children or active military personnel. The first on the plane! For the whole trip. That certainly made the process easier, much less stressful. The overhead bins were all empty, and no noisy passengers jostled, finding their seats and storing their luggage.

David had insisted on making arrangements for a wheelchair to meet me in Houston. The very thought jolted me, but I acquiesced. Actually, I was met by a little passenger “train” for various of us that tooted down the airport halls at a good pace. The place for my connecting flight was only five minutes from where I disembarked. I could have walked it with no problems, but the ride was fun.

And so it went for the whole trip, there and back. People seemed more than willing to assist me, whether I needed it or not. It was one of the easiest travel experiences I’ve had. Ever.

The celebration itself more than met my expectations and gave evidence that I was meant to be there. I was with people I loved; it felt a little like coming home. Lots of hugs, some tears, deep conversations, times of prayer, and the sharing of stories. Each graduate had space in the program to present whatever was on her/his heart.

Our worship together was anything but academic. And it was not an academic celebration, although I had never been in a room with so many PhDs. That part was not at all overwhelming. What overwhelmed was the sense of gratitude. We were people celebrating the acts of God on our behalf. We were celebrating the community we had become. It all provided me with a blessed sense of closure.

One interesting aspect of the adventure was the concern my family was experiencing. They were very worried over how I would manage the trip alone. Lots of texts passed back and forth. At one point, I didn’t text for several hours for various reasons—getting through customs, late arrival at the hotel, the opening reception, getting connected to the Internet, etc. When I finally was able to connect the next morning, I found this long chain of conversations, all worried about me, wondering what to do, who to contact, etc. It made me chuckle and I felt like saying, “Lighten up, you guys. I’m a grown-up. I’ve done this before.” I didn’t say that, of course.

On the morning I was to fly home, I woke up just in time (thanks be to God) to get dressed, close the suitcase, and hurry down to the lobby to catch the shuttle to the airport. No time to text home. In fact, I had no time or connection to text until I finally got to Houston. In the meantime, Hal had contacted the program administrator in Panama to have her investigate to see if I had checked out of the hotel and boarded the plane. I felt embarrassed by the fuss.

Looking back, I recognize that, while a little exaggerated, the concerns of my family were legitimate. I hadn’t traveled independently for quite a few years, and I was a different person. A dizzy person in the process of growing older. And, to be honest, how much better that my family be concerned then if they didn’t care one way or the other.

I wonder how much my reaction comes from denial of the fact that I’m aging. “I’m too young for a wheelchair! I’m not a ‘disabled person’! This is NOT a cane; it’s walking stick!” And so on. And while I am on the younger side of old, that won’t last. There just may be a wheelchair in my future. Face up to it, Nancy!

I also acknowledge the role prayer played in all of this. I was humbled and blessed to learn how much my congregation, as well as my family, had been praying for me. That surely made a difference in how easy the plane trip was and how meaningful and satisfying the celebration. Thanks be to God.

So now we have once again have decided that long international trips are no longer an option. It’s a fairly firm decision (how’s that for an oxymoron?), at least until the next enticing invitation.

The Nursery Tree Effect

 I’ve invited a guest-blogger this week. Gary Fawver and I have several things in common: we’re both residents of this retirement community, we both participate in the same writers group (one that has been ongoing for about 15 years), we both love green things, and we’re both experiencing the challenge of growing older.

Twice Gary has been asked to give a talk to residents here about trees, once in 1979 and again in 2016. In 1979, Gary was 41 years old and the director of Tilikum, a camp in the Pacific Northwest. By 2016 he and his wife Susan had become residents of this community.  Thirty -seven years separate those talks! Gary recently let me read his notes. I have his permission to share them with you in this blog. Here is the essence of what he said.

June 1979

Something a visitor to Tilikum becomes immediately aware of are the trees—both those growing naturally and the cultivated fruit trees. Trees are everywhere. They come in different kinds, shapes, and sizes, yet they are all trees. A unique creation from the hand of God.

The Scriptures are full of trees, from the lovely green tree planted by streams of water (Psalm 1, Jeremiah 17:7-8), to the picture of the Christian as a branch clinging to the Vine of Christ and bearing fruit (John 15), and the description of a believer as one who is rooted in Jesus (Colossians 2:6-7). Trees provide a metaphor of human development and the process of maturity, both spiritually and physically.

There are three particular mature (old growth) trees at Tilikum that I’d like to tell you about: White Oak, Douglas Fir, and Big Leaf Maple. They are 300-500 years old. If they could talk, what stories they would tell of all the things they’ve seen and heard! Once they were young and impressionable, easily bent. Other trees came and went, but these grew strong and tall. As they grew, they bore their seeds and parented many young trees of their kind, providing shade from the hot summer sun. Animals and birds found refuge, comfort and nourishment in their limbs and in the protection of their trunks. Hard times—fires, storms, disease—took their toll on them and on other trees, yet these three survived.

You here at Friendsview are in my story of these trees. You are like trees in an old growth forest, with some of the same characteristics, challenges, and splendor of my old tree friends. And yet, in God’s timing, those trees must fall in death. One such giant fell yesterday. Her name was Marie Haines.

March 30, 2016

My talk at Friendsview was 37 years ago. Who would have thought that Susan and I would be residents in 2016! Yet here we are.

Since that message in 1979, the Big Leaf Maple tree has fallen. It was my favorite. Of the three trees, it was the most child friendly. One could climb into it easily, or several campers could crouch into a natural impression at its base to stay out of the rain. At various times there were swinging ropes and platforms placed in its branches. In its hollow trunk was a honeybee hive. We could put a stethoscope against the bark and hear the hum of all the bee wings.

We old folks are similar to trees, you know—trees living in an old growth forest community. We are all unique creations of God—incredibly different from each other and yet humans, all of us. We can tell lots of stories about what we have seen, heard, and done. Some of us have parented young trees after our kind. And, as with the trees, there have been hard times—accidents and illnesses that may have left us scarred. Personal or family tragedies that left irreparable damage.

There’s more. A recent trip through an old growth got me thinking about what are called “nursery trees”(also called “nurse logs”). When an ancient tree falls, seeds germinate, take root, and grow out of the body of that tree, using its nutrients. Even in its death, the tree continues nourishing the life of the forest.

Perhaps this can be one of the greatest prayers of those of us who reside in this retirement community, a prayer that we be productive nursery trees in our death as well as in our living.

It’s obvious how many of us throughout our lives have given refuge, comfort, nourishment, security, and care to those who have been nearest us—our spouse, children, friends and through our jobs as teachers, counselors, ministers, entrepreneurs, and so on. But only in our death and the years that follow will our real contribution as a nursery tree be recognized.

Missionary doctor and author Paul Brand wrote this after showing his children and grandchildren the nursery trees of the Olympic National Forest: “My active life is mostly behind me. Soon I will no longer occupy this earthly home. But I pray that my life and the principles God has helped me to live by will continue to influence young lives. When we die, we do not only leave seed; we also leave an effect on the soil in which future children will grow and future spiritual seed will be nourished.”

We see what I call the Nursery Tree Effect in many folks who have left our community, even since I spoke here 37 years ago. I think we see that Marie Haines’ legacy has been carried out in her daughter Ellen Martin.

And so I, Gary Fawver, continue to ask myself: How am I shaping and giving nourishment to the new generations of “great trees”? What effect am I leaving on the soil in which my family and friends will be nourished? What principles is God helping me live by, principles that will continue to influence young lives long after I’m gone?

Hear what the prophet says: “Blessed is the person who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. He will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes, its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:7-8)