Thoughts From the Porch: I intended to spend the weekend catching up on all the outdoor stuff I’d put off due to last week’s weather. I ended up cleaning house and spending time with my oldest granddaughter instead. The house was a disaster from a wet week (three big dogs make for three times the mess) so I spent Saturday with broom, mop, and vacuum cleaner. Sunday had big plans, but they were cast aside when I was able to spend time with Baillie. She’s a freshman in college and we don’t get to see each other as much.
I’ve
thought about Baillie a lot over the last few weeks and especially this
morning. It’s hard to believe the same little girl who rode in my old work
truck to church with me every week is now a beautiful young college student. It’s
so cliché to say, “it seems like yesterday when we (fill in the blank)”, but that’s
the way it is. It was four trucks and a lifetime ago.
I
originally sat down to write a Monday morning treatise on grace. My mind was
full of all kinds of theologically deep thoughts about “unmerited divine assistance given to humans for their regeneration
or sanctification” (Merriam-Webster Dictionary – italics mine). Fortunately, my
mind kept going back to my sweet granddaughter and the grace that’s filled our
lives.
When
Baillie was three or four, I was told that I’d never be a part of my
granddaughter’s life. My life was a mess; a tornado roaring through the lives
of everyone I touched. Looking back, I can’t argue with those who kept me away
from her. Fortunately, things began to change around the time she turned five:
I found recovery from the hopeless state of mind that made up my life. I found
grace.
I’d
love to tell you of this magical, mystical moment when I latched on to the wellspring
of grace and life changed, but I can’t. It was a process of receiving and
accepting progressively deeper levels of grace – from God and my fellows. Over
time, I’ve come to realize that all
is grace. My life has changed; has been transformed.
The
relationship I have with my granddaughter today is a constant reminder of the
grace, and subsequent gratitude, that fills my life. I still remember the first
time she came to spend Christmas with me. Those early visits were often short
but the highlight of my day. Weeks passed and the visits became more frequent.
Months later, we were off together in my old truck, laughing and spending days
together.
Things
have changed through the years. She’s graduated high school, works hard in
college, and has a host of friends her age that she hangs out with. Even though
time our time together has become less frequent, it’s become more valuable. I’m
always amazed and incredibly grateful when she comes running up to hug me and
spend time with Pops. Grace is an amazing thing.
I’m
convinced that those who have experienced the depths of God’s grace and the
love of a child understand grace better than most. They rely on it and their lives
are transformed. Their lives overflow with grace and gratitude and it touches
everything around them. That’s been my experience anyway.
I
wish you all a grace-filled Monday; grace that pours out into the world. I’m
off to my granddaughter’s house…
Thoughts From the Porch: I had a big day planned. The operative word being “had”. One of the frustrations in farming can be the dependence on the weather, the one thing that cannot be controlled. There’s either too much rain or not enough, either an early or late frost, a brutally hot summer or a brutally cold winter. Farming is always dependent on the weather. So, it is this morning…
Still, even a day of rain can be a blessing. This week has been a bit hectic. Keyboard time has been limited to thank you notes for our ribbon cutting attendees and constant appeals for donations and sponsors. That’s the perpetual chore for most non-profit organizations. However, since I had to rearrange the schedule to fit the weather, I found the time to share some thoughts from the porch.
Waiting to leave for Opal’s Farm
The morning started with threatening skies. I greeted the day with mixed emotions. Part of me wanted it to rain. It’d be a great excuse for staying home and this has been a busy week. When the clouds finally let go of their watery loads with a resounding bang, I felt a twinge of relief. Jameson, on the other hand, did not.
For
those of you who don’t know, Jameson is the official Farm Dog for Opal’s Farm. I’m
not sure his title ever went to a board vote, but I made an executive decision
as Farm Manager that he would be our official mascot. Besides, I’m not sure I
would even know how to farm without a Farm Dog.
Jameson
came to join our little family almost three years ago. Missy, my Sheltie
companion of ten years, had passed away in March of that year and, to be
honest, I wasn’t sure I was ready to adopt a new dog (another story for another
time). She was more than simply my best friend. She was special. I can’t
explain it any better than that. Pet parents will know exactly what I’m talking
about.
One
day, almost a month after Missy died, I was at the feed store up the street from
the Humane Society of North Texas animal shelter. I was finished early for the
day and I could just stop in to look, right? I stopped in and wandered through
the kennels. I was rather proud of myself that I didn’t make an impulsive
decision, but when I got home, I had to confess to Margaret I’d opened a door
that maybe I shouldn’t have.
To
my surprise, Margaret said, “If you want to adopt a dog, then maybe you should.
Our home seems a little empty now”.
I said,
“thank you but maybe I’ll think about it some more”. I started on some chores,
but an hour later I was headed back to the shelter. I wanted to get there
before they closed. So much for taking time to think about it.
To make a long story short, in the very last kennel I inspected my heart simply melted. I left the shelter with Jameson (although we hadn’t decided on a name yet). The incredible folks at North Texas Humane Society were happy to share some of his background. He was nineteen months old and had been born at the shelter. He’d been adopted twice before and returned because of “behavior problems”. Most of his life had been spent in the shelter and the employees loved him. He had a bit of a reputation there and I took him around to say goodbye before heading home. The last thing they told me was that “he’s not a ‘cuddler’.”
Fast forward to today and I can tell you he doesn’t know he doesn’t like to cuddle. In fact, he obviously isn’t aware he’s not a lap dog (a 100+pound lapdog, mind you!). He got his name because from day one he’s been a licker. I don’t need a shower after a few minutes with him. Why not name him after my favorite liquor, Jameson’s? Licker, liquor, get it?
As
I sit here writing this, Jameson is right by my side. He’s really a ‘Momma’s
boy’, but when it thundered, Jameson found his place by my side. You see, he’s
terrified of thunder. I can’t say for sure what the root of his phobia is, but
I think it has to do with being in the shelter those many months. Living in
North Texas is pretty scary during the Spring thunderstorm season. I imagine it’s
even scarier for a young dog in a kennel by himself with a cacophony of other
dogs barking around him…
As
for behavior problems I still haven’t figured that one out. Jameson is a
typical Catahoula – fierce enough to take down a wild boar or a bear and gentle
enough to love on our grandkids. The only thing I can figure is he was waiting
on us to be his family.
That’s Jameson’s story. We’ve since been blessed with Maggie (a Catahoula-Coyote mix, or as Margaret says, a Coyotahoula) and Sadie (our pretty mixed breed – part Rottweiler and…?). They love the farm as well, but there can only be one official Farm Dog and Jameson earned that title…
One may wonder why an official Farm Dog is such a big deal. Only those who have known the love of a canine companion really ‘get it’. To say that dogs are “man’s best friend” is a gross understatement. Besides, I’m sure his spirit will make the produce grow bigger. It’s made my heart grow bigger…
It’s time for dinner!
The
day I brought Jameson home he ventured out into the backyard for the first
time. At once, he went straight to where Missy was buried and sat reverently as
if to pay his respects to my beloved friend. He sat there for quite a while, then
went to the other end of the yard to take care of dog business. One can’t tell
me that dogs lack the same spirit we all share. I want that kind of spirit
around our farm as well as our home.
So,
here’s to Jameson the Farm Dog. Feel free to stop by and visit anytime but be
prepared to cuddle!
For
those of you who don’t know, Jameson is the official Farm Dog for Opal’s Farm. I’m
not sure his title ever went to a board vote, but I made an executive decision
as Farm Manager that he would be our official mascot. Besides, I’m not sure I
would even know how to farm without a Farm Dog.
One day, almost a month after Missy died, I was at the feed store up the street from the Humane Society of North Texas animal shelter. I was finished early for the day and I could just stop in to look, right? I stopped in and wandered through the kennels. I was rather proud of myself that I didn’t make an impulsive decision, but when I got home, I had to confess to Margaret I’d opened a door thaThat’s Jameson’s story. We’ve since been blessed with Maggie (a Catahoula-Coyote mix, or as Margaret says, a Coyotahoula) and Sadie (our pretty mixed breed – part Rottweiler and…?). They love the farm as well, but there can only be one official Farm Dog and Jameson earned that title…
Thoughts From the Porch: The last few days have been a preview of Spring in North Texas. It was shorts and tee-shirt weather and even hit the eighty-degree mark. Yesterday morning was a reminder that Winter won’t be leaving for a while yet. Today was the coldest day of winter so far: a mere 25 degrees. I know my friends in Chicago and the Midwest are saying, “what a wimp”, but it drove me to the desk in rapid time so here I sit, coffee at hand and Stevie Wonder on the stereo.
February is the shortest month of the year as far as the
number of days goes, but it seems like it’s unending. Regardless of what a
large furry rodent says about Spring’s timing, February will last for months.
That’s what February does.
The good news about this February is that the ribbon cutting for Opal’s Farm is going well. Invitations are being sent and we’ve had a great response given those who have sent their RSVP. We secured tents in the event of inclement weather (it is Texas…). Thank goodness it fell in an interminably long month. Maybe we’ll get everything done…
As I write this it’s mid-morning here in Fort Worth. I rarely
sleep in and never on a work day. However, I feel into bed quite exhausted last
night. Apparently, I never set the alarm. Even without the alarm I’m usually up
and about by 7 AM at the latest. Today it was well after 8:00. My body said “stop”
and I must have listened, at least subconsciously. It’s taken several cups of coffee
to clear the fog hanging around my head, but here I sit.
Yesterday, Ms. Opal and I had the opportunity to speak to a Food
Justice class at Texas Christian University. Thank you, Dr. David Aftandilian,
for asking us to make a presentation about Opal’s Farm. He also works with the
Tarrant County Food Policy Council and I can’t begin to tell you how much that
work is appreciated. My work with Opal’s Farm has brought me in contact with so
many people who work diligently to improve food justice and access for the
residents of Tarrant County and North Texas.
The greatest difficulty I face when speaking about food scarcity
and access is the time limits imposed by everyone else’s schedule. I easily go
on for hours about these issues for hours. That’s why I’m so passionate about
Opal’s Farm. I have no doubt that everybody would love to resolve hunger and
food injustices, not just in Tarrant County, but everywhere. Unfortunately,
that problems so big that it often seems too abstract to solve. I’m under no
illusions. Opal’s Farm won’t settle the entire problem, but it will make a dent
in it. It’s something tangible. It puts the face of our neighbors, people who
live right here in Tarrant County. It addresses their needs one person at a
time.
I have a friend who’s been in the substance abuse and
recovery field for over twenty years how she managed to stay so positive when
the problem can be so difficult and frustrating. She said her focus was on the one,
not the many, that made her work so important. Like her, I know I can’t “fix it
all”, but I can do something. Farming is the first step.
“If you can’t feed
a hundred people, then feed just one.” — Mother Teresa
Ultimately, Opal’s Farm isn’t about the food it produces nor
the access it provides. Those are the means to an end. The end is serving
people, of transforming lives by being of service, by offering opportunity,
education, and simple human dignity, but it begins with a farm…
Thank you again to TCU for inviting Ms. Opal and I to speak.
Thank you to the college students eager to learn and seek solutions. Thank you
to all the folks who are working to find and create solutions to food
injustices, poor nutrition, and hunger for all our neighbors. Thank you to all
our fellow urban farmers who work diligently to ward the solution. Thanks to
all of you who jump in and donate to become “farmers” along side all of us at
Opal’s Farm!
“As we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people
Thoughts From the Porch: Yesterday
would have been my father’s ninety-third birthday. He passed in 2002 and nary a
day goes by that I don’t miss him. Even after sixteen years there are days when
grief feels overwhelming. I often
stop by the cemetery on my way to and from so I can sit and “talk” to him. It’s
a great way to work through the grief I feel some days.
One can argue that the cemetery is a resting place for the body only. For those that share my religious faith it’s understood that Dad’s spirit probably left that place to go wherever it is that our spirits go after death. It may sound childish, but I believe it’s a place for our spirits to be together.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead
says something to the effect that when one with a great soul passes, a strong
wind will begin to blow. I remember stepping outside the hospital to have a smoke
after he had passed. A blustery wind made it almost impossible to light my
cigarette. I was so overcome with grief that I didn’t put two and two together
until a cemetery visit some time later.
On that particular visit, I had
come to read my father a letter I’d written acknowledging the fact that I had
caused a lot of harm while in my active addiction. In my program of recovery,
it’s called “making amends” a cleaning up of the wreckage of my past. Some may doubt
that amends, the process of amending or righting a wrong, can be made to
someone who has passed away. My experience that day says otherwise.
I stood in front of the
headstone, wiping away the tears, and reading my letter. The details of my
letter are deeply personal and between Dad and me. Suffice it to say that my
father was an incredible man who loved me dearly and I never gave him much to
work with as a son. It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized his greatness.
People often said that he was
my chief enabler and, while that may be true, it was his love that showed me
what God’s love was all about. As frustrated, and oft-times angry, as he could
become with me, he never stopped loving (or forgiving) me. I can’t think of a
better example of how the God of endless grace loves me…
I finished my letter. The tears
began to subside. I looked up and the wind began to swirl around me. It had
been still just a moment ago.
Our family plot is in an older
part of the cemetery surrounded by beautiful old oak trees. I mention this because
as the wind swirled about, I could see that none of the tree limbs were moving.
That’s when it hit me: “when one with a great soul passes, a strong wind will begin
to blow.” Dad was telling me one more time, “It’s okay. I forgive you and I
love you more than you can ever know. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
I think of that day often,
especially when life shows up with all its occasional difficulties. If Dad, a
mere human, can love me that much – how much more so can the Creator of the
Universe love me?
I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot this week. Not only was it his birthday, but the Stock Show and Rodeo opens on Friday. After Dad retired from the railroad, he would work the Harley Street gate for the Stock Show every year. He would be there a week before the show and a week after, so for a month straight he worked twelve-hour days. We usually didn’t celebrate his birthday until afterwards because he just came home, ate, and went to bed. As tired as he was, especially as he got older, he wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Since 1918, the Fort Worth
Stock Show was called the Southwestern Exposition and “Fat” Stock Show. Now it’s
just the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo. I’m not sure why they changed it. I
guess it’s no longer politically correct to call livestock fat. Maybe “weight-challenged”
is more acceptable. I’m not sure Dad would approve. Cows are supposed to be fat
and it violates tradition. Dad was big on tradition…
Saturday I’ll watch the annual
Stock Show Parade and I’ll think of Dad. Afterwards, I might go by the cemetery
on the way home. It’s no surprise that Saturday is supposed to be a really windy day…
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