"On All Things Ordinary"

ordinary:  adj.  Being part of the natural order of things, normal, customary, routine

extraordinary:  adj.  Not ordinary, exceptional, unusual


The comment was made by a former high school classmate:  "I do love the way you write and make the ordinary so much more."   In a few words, she aptly described my life and how I view the world and everything in it.  "The ordinary IS so much more," was my response.

We live in an age of superlatives--big government and big banks, megachurches, multi-faceted products, multibillionaires, superstars and super sized meals; high-speed internet, corporate farming, conglomerates, all things global.  That word ordinary carries with it a negative connotation, as though something is wrong.  Perhaps goals have not been set and met; maybe focus has been lost; something is definitely askew.  How can ordinary be a good thing?  How can it be optimum, desirable?  

Ordinary, however, is what makes up our everyday life; quite literally, it is what makes the world go around.  Consistent, predictable, typical, we rely on and expect ordinary, whether we realize it or not.  It is the out of the ordinary which carries a jolt, puts a kink in our plans, throws us for a loop.

The sun rises and it sets; the seasons change as one flows and melds into the next; babies are conceived and born, and as they grow up, a changing of the guard takes place as that generation becomes the next to rule the world; there is birth, and there is death. Life is filled with ordinary, the various rhythms and cycles meshing together like gears, propelling us all forward into the future, unknown though it may be.

How, then, does ordinary become something more?  How does it become extraordinary?

I am reminded of a Bible story. Christ and His 12 disciples had gone into the desert for a retreat of sorts, a time of privacy and rest.  A multitude of people in the thousands discovered where they were and inundated the area, wanting to be healed or delivered from demons, begging to be taught. Recognizing their needs, He did not turn them away.  

It became late in the day and, with no food available in the desert, the people were getting hungry.  The disciples wanted to send everyone off to their homes, but Jesus had a plan, another idea.  A young boy had offered food he had brought, five loaves of barley bread and two fish, probably quite ordinary fare for that time.  Isn't it just like a boy to make sure he has some food, a little snack for himself as he heads out the door?     

The crowd was numbered at 5,000 men, and that didn't include the women and children. It was obvious there wasn't a sufficient amount to feed everyone.  The disciples pooled their money and quickly realized they weren't even close to having enough funds to purchase food for that many people even if they went back into the village to do that.

Christ accepted the gift of bread and fish from the boy, gave thanks to God, and began giving the food to the disciples to distribute to the crowd.  The people ate, they were all filled, and there were 12 baskets of leftovers--from five loaves of bread and two fish. 

Ordinary becoming extraordinary.

Everything about my life and about me is ordinary--where I live, how I live, the food I eat, the vehicle I drive, the work I do.  One could almost set their clock by my morning rising time. I begin my day almost identically every day, first with a cup of green tea with a touch of honey and vinegar, then a green smoothy concoction of spinach, kale, banana, and orange, topped off with a bowl of cereal.  While you might not consider the smoothy ordinary, it is for me. There is a sameness about my life, a routine.

And yet in the ordinary there are times of extraordinary.  They come when I least expect them and always fill my soul, my very being with the knowledge that my life consists of more than just me--a message received from one who has had major struggles in life, sharing where he is, what he is doing, and how life is coming along for him; a visit from another I have known for most of his lifetime, picking up the conversation where we last left off, a verbal exchange of our lives and friendship with one another; a grocery store clerk who openly speaks of her frustrations and fears about family while checking me out; a young mother I've not even met who reveals the pain and heavy load of caring for a family member with a terminal illness while being wife and mother as well, asking for prayer.

People.  People who open the door to their inner self and allow me to enter in.

My life is not my own.  I don't know if that is readily or easily understood, but it is so.  In giving up one's life, the doors are opened up to experience touches, moments where all that is ordinary becomes extraordinary.  That is what happened when that young boy gave all that he had to give.  That is the touch of God in everyday, ordinary life.  


  

      


  




          

"For the Love of Dog"

dignity:  a quality or state worthy of esteem and respect

His name is Tank.  He was given that name when he was chosen as a puppy, as he was the largest of the litter.  It was as apropos then as it is now. That was 14 years ago. In his prime he weighed 110 pounds; as an elder that has diminished to 89 pounds, still a large animal. 

Tank's family is on a camping trip.  In times past he would have been included. Age has set in and with it some physical limitations. The logistics of navigating the camp site and trailer would be difficult for him and not practical, so he is visiting my house.  

He loves going into the backyard, investigating the trails of animals which may have frequented during the night, lying on the cool grass.  

There are two steps from the utility room to outside.  Tank's hips are weakening and he has trouble hoisting his body up onto his back legs.  Very carefully, he gauges placement of his paws as he works his way down, no small feat for an animal his size.  

Coming back in is no easy matter for him either, as demands are placed on his front legs and upper body to get up the steps and through the door, his back legs unable to provide the necessary spring.  I leave the back door open for him, and he comes up to the steps and stands, waiting for me to come and coax him, encourage him.  He knows himself and, when the legs simply aren't working, he waits as I get a sling and place it underneath him. I have been so struck by his willingness and effort to work with me as I raise his front in the door and he is then able to get his back legs underneath him and step up and in.    

I must present the disclaimer that I am not a dog person.  There are some who are unable to live their lives without a dog.  I am not one of them.  Having said that, I must make an exception--and that would be Tank.

For the first two years of his life he had the exclusive attention of his owner and master.  A God-send during a difficult time in life, they were the picture of "A Man and His Dog."  With love and a firm hand Tank was taught the importance of manners, obedience, and how to be a gentleman.  

The family grew--first a wife, an infant, and then another entered the household, and Tank was unsure of his status.  He had lost the position of first priority, and it was evident he didn't understand what was happening.  Jealousy is not in his nature, and he conceded to the change.  With his body size and bulk there was the potential of plowing the little ones over, but he was always conscious of them and did his best to make way for them.  Now 10 and 12, "Tankers" is the girls' best friend.

Watching one age is difficult, whether it be man or beast.  Tank's abilities and capabilities have decreased since the last time he stayed with me.  His body is wearing out.  The days of chasing after a ball, swimming in the river, and running, running, running are in the past.    

I am reminded of the phrase "aging gracefully." That is what Tank is doing.  I watch him, and his intelligence and level of understanding is amazing, his disposition admirable.  The dignity with which he is living his life at this stage is enviable, an example we humans can apply in our own lives.  He copes with his restrictions and does so with a smile.   

Because I'm not an animal person, I haven't seriously considered the place of animals in eternity, the next life.  Tank has caused me to give that some serious thought.  He has been such a gift to his family and those who come in contact with him, why wouldn't there be a place for him?  I must say I don't know.  

What I do know is that the Creator is One who cares about all of His creation, and that includes Tank.  Without words, just by being, Tank has had an impact on many.  He certainly has worked his way into my heart.  Lessons learned from an animal, at the hand of God.  

Tank, you are the best!   
    


"Are not 5 sparrows sold for two pennies, and not one of them is forgotten before God."

   














   

"On Selflessness vs. Selfishness"

Two gifts of selflessness

selflessness:  being more concerned with the needs of others than with your own needs; self-sacrificing

selfishness:  concerned chiefly or excessively with self and having little regard for others

Sitting down in my rocking chair with my morning elixir of green tea laced with honey and apple cider vinegar--with the "mother" of course, I began what has become my morning ritual, that of scrolling through various news feeds on my iPad.  I have forgotten the merit and value of the tea/honey/vinegar combination, but I think it has something to do with alleviating stiffness in the fingers.  While I refuse to apply the label arthritic, it does seem to help a bit. 

One of the first articles I read was about a young woman, pregnant with twin girls, having an abortion at 20 weeks.  One of her justifications for the abortion was that she already had two girls. After reading the details of what is involved in late-term abortions, I found a seething outrage developing within over what I could only see as an act of selfishness.   

"Children are a gift."  That is my mantra, "It matters not how they are given."  And I would add that, while some pregnancies may come at an inopportune time under difficult circumstances, they are not a mistake, the children an inconvenience.  Life is a gift.  

Many years ago, almost 50 in fact, I found myself in a place of desperately wanting a child and unable to become pregnant.  If you were to question my Heavenly Father, He would no doubt shake His head and rub His ears upon being reminded of that time in my life. The begging, pleading, crying, dare I say--harassing, was endless.  Driven by that intense desire with no fulfillment was one of the most difficult times of my life. 

Fertility drugs were still experimental but were presented as an option,  Multiple births were frequent and, after being told of a mother in Australia conceiving nine babies, I declined.  My thought was that I had asked God for a baby, not a litter.    

It was then the idea of adoption was placed in my mind, a door opening up.  Having stepped through, I've never looked back.

The phone call came from the adoption agency saying our little girl had been born.  My thoughts immediately went to her birth mother, the pregnancy, labor, and delivery she had just experienced, the sacrifice she was making, and the fact that she was going to leave the hospital empty-handed and broken-hearted.  I asked God to give her peace and to let her know she had done the right thing.  In a time of closed adoptions, where all records were sealed by the courts, I never expected to ever meet her or see her.
Thirty-one years later, I was given yet another gift when my firstborn grandgirl was adopted by my daughter and her husband through the same agency. Times and laws had changed.  This was an open adoption, one where the birth mother chose the parents who would provide a home for and raise the child she was carrying. It was agreed between the parties involved that a level of communication and contact would take place as she grew up.          

My son-in-law was President of the Oregon Logging Conference for 2015-16; as "First Lady," my daughter had certain responsibilities.  One was to present a charity at a dessert luncheon, the proceeds from the luncheon to benefit that charity of choice.  She chose Boys' and Girls' Aid Society of Oregon, the adoption agency both she and her daughter, my grandgirl, were adopted through.  Her plan was to make a video presentation rather than a verbal one, and she wanted to incorporate all those women in her life who had been a part of her very personal adoption experience.

We were to meet for a photo session and dinner.  There were five of us, ranging in age from 16 to 71, connected by a common bond, a thread which wove its way through all our lives, that of adoption.  Two birth mothers, two adoptive mothers, two adopted children. My daughter was the unique one to be both an adoptee and an adoptive parent. 

At the restaurant, my daughter's birth mother and I were seated next to one another. Birth mother and child had made a connection several years earlier.  I had met her then, but we hadn't really talked.  As the dinner neared an end, she leaned over to me.  "She's beautiful. You did such a good job raising her."  It was then I was able to thank her for the priceless, selfless gift she had given me.  I told her of my prayer for her--Yes, she had been given peace.  I told her of the first time I held her precious gift and that I never took for granted the pain she had gone through or minimized how difficult the decision was to give her child to another, never expecting to ever see her again. 
  
Whether one is selfless or selfish, those traits are not ones which can be covered up or hidden.  They are readily visible, manifest in behavior, actions, and attitudes; words never factor in.  A base, a foundation within each one of us, they are seen and felt by our families and fellow man.  At the core of all that we do, we come from either a place of selflessness or selfishness.

Facing the option of abortion and choosing instead to carry their babies full-term, two women made the ultimate sacrifice, that of giving up their children.  I'm certain it was the hardest thing they ever had to do.  I cannot imagine my life without these gifts.  My life and that of my family would have a huge hole in it, an enormous void were it not for this, the epitome of selflessness. I am eternally grateful--to these two and to the One who heard my cries and answered.




I am reminded of the One Who asked no more than what He, Himself did.  

"God loved the world so much that He gave His one and only Son....." 

    

   

"On The Things I Learned Working In The Fields"

work ethic:  the value that one ought to work hard at one's job or duties; the belief that hard work is intrinsically virtuous or worthy of reward

The weather forecast was for a heat wave across the Willamette Valley with temperatures expected to be in the upper 90’s.  A “Severe Heat Warning” had been issued with instructions to stay inside and how to avoid heat stroke. 

My mind went back decades to summer when I was a young girl, summers spent working in the fields, from the time I was very young until I was 15.

When I was a kid, there were no summer vacations, no challenge for my parents to find ways to fill the days of summer with camps or activities when the school year was completed.  That wasn't because of a year-round school schedule. The summer was spent harvesting fruits and vegetables for the farmers in the area as soon as school came to an end in May,  They were summers spent receiving a different kind of education.

The small rural community I grew up in was known as Tennessee, and my Dad described the area where we lived as “The Tennessee river bottom," The Santiam River originates high in the Cascades, and its tributary, the South Santiam River, flows through that part of the valley floor. The soil is rich and fertile, the result of centuries of flooding in a time before dams. We lived no more than 1/2 mile from the Santiam. I have often said my father could have planted a rock, and it would have grown.  The soil is that good; there is none better.

Farmers, some with just a few acres, others with a large spread, made use of their favorable growing conditions and planted row crops, the main ones strawberries, raspberries, and bush or pole beans.  Their hired labor in harvesting those crops included the kids from the local town nearby and surrounding area. 

Field work is hard and demanding, both mentally and physically, whether one is five years old or an adult. The strawberries were removed from the vines either by standing up and bending over or traversing the row on one's knees. Raspberries were cajoled from the vine and placed in a wooden contraption tied around the waist which held two boxes. Picking pole beans was an up-and-down-the-vine motion. The beans were placed in a 5-gallon bucket then transferred to gunny sacks. When the gunny sack was full, it was carried by the picker down to the scales to be weighed, and a ticket was given, indicating the amount of poundage.

The days began at 7 and ended at 4 with Sunday as a day of rest. The crops needed to be harvested at their optimum time of maturity so that often meant working in blazing heat. I don't remember a field ever closing due to a "Severe Heat Warning." Field work is not for the faint of heart.

Child labor laws forbidding the use of children under the age of 16 working in such a manner are now in existence. The things I learned while working in the fields are important, though, the base of much of my life and the kind of person I am.

It didn't take much thought for me to come up with a list, as these are applied often in my daily life and, especially, in my work as a gardener.

1.  Finish what you start.  Upon being assigned a row to harvest it was expected by the farmer/owner that all the fruit or vegetables would be picked.  Half-measure was never acceptable.  You finished one row, and you were then given another one to pick.

2.  If I don’t do it, it won’t get done.  I am the one who must answer for the task allocated to me.  When my name was placed beside a certain row number to pick it was a commitment, my responsibility.  There was no one else to place the blame on if I didn’t fulfill the assignment given me. 

3.  If it isn't done right, it has to be done over.  Every field had its “row bosses,” usually women who came behind and made certain no fruits or vegetables were left behind, and they had no problem requiring a picker start over from the beginning in order for it to be done right, to be picked clean.  Accountability in action.

4.  Don’t look up.  The rows were long.  While they seemed to be at least ¼ of a mile in length that is probably an exaggeration.  When I asked my brother the length he commented, “Too long.”  For me, the only way I could deal with that enormity was to focus on the area I was working on.  It was my method to keep from being overwhelmed.

5.  Quitting is not an option.  My mother was always either my picking partner or one who worked at the stand, so the idea of quitting never entered my mind.  As she picked along beside me, her example was my standard.

6. "It won't hurt you" and "It won't kill you."   Classic “isms” of Mom, they are most often true.  Even the most difficult of situations isn't generally harmful or fatal, and field work was one of them.

And lastly:

7.  Money doesn't grow on trees.  While that is an accurate statement, it figuratively grew on berry and bean vines.  It just grew in the form of fruit and vegetable and had to be removed.   "Hard-earned money" is the perfect description when it comes to compensation for field work.  Payment for a 6-box carrier of strawberries was 25 cents; it was a bit more for a 12-box crate of raspberries, but those were much smaller and shrank in the heat.  I remember tripping and spilling a crate of raspberries more than once on my way to the stand where the fruit was exchanged for a ticket, proof of work.  The bulk of the crate was difficult for a child to wield while plowing through the vines.  Bean pickers were paid 2 1/2 cents per pound with a whopping 1/4 cent bonus for staying with the farmer the entire season. 

Cashing in the bean and berry tickets at the end of the summer, the money was carefully spent with a great deal of thought going into purchases.  My first (and only) bicycle at the age of 9 or 10 required most of my entire summer's earnings.  An annual savings bond, money for Christmas gifts, school clothes--the result of a summer's efforts.  

I have had more than one conversation with my peers, those who grew up in the same area as I did, many of them picking in the same fields as I.  The common consensus is that, while field work was hard, it was a valuable experience for kids, one that helped develop us into responsible, hard-working adults, contributors to those around us and society at large.  Self-discipline, working under the direction of others, beginning and finishing difficult tasks under difficult circumstances, and being compensated for that difficult work--character-building values learned while working in the fields.

    


"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."