The intended “I’m going to post every other day in 2021” hasn’t gone as planned. I purposefully avoided calling it a resolution thinking that would help. Resolutions are a set up for failure in my book. major life changes – stopping bad habits and starting new ones – rarely come to fruition no matter how strong my resolve. Besides, the little committee between my ears loves it a resolution falls by the wayside – they love to remind me I’ve failed again. I’ve learned not to give them ammunition to use against me. My brain is often not my friend…
I don’t want to make excuses, but it has been a hectic start to the New Year at Opal’s Farm. We’ve increased the production area by 66%. Planting for early Spring crops is almost completed. Evenings are filled with virtual conferences, classes, and the office “To Do” list. Winter hasn’t slowed us down. Rain is predicted for the next three days. Maybe we can take a breather…
Late last year, we plowed, tilled, and planted an Elbon Rye cover crop on a new 1/3 acre. We’ve been able to take care of a bigger area thanks to the Kubota tractor provided to us by Zimmerer Kubota and a 48” tiller implement purchased for Grow SE growers by Blue Zones Project Fort Worth. WE realized that the tractor would free us up to do an additional section. We added another 1/3 acre and have completed most of the beds. Spring is looking good.
Winter is the time to plant cold friendly spring vegetables. We already had several winter crops in that will produce through early Spring. Now we have our cilantro, snow peas, kale, and onions in. I’d still be planting onions if the Paschal High School Key Club hadn’t been there Saturday morning. The young people were a planting machine! They got in over half (approximately 1500 to 2000 onions) in less than two hours!
We intend to be at Cowtown Farmers Market this Saturday. Come on down shop local!
I finished my morning prayer and meditation on the porch this morning and headed for the desk. I found this gem from Chalice Press in my inbox and had to share it with you all. Chalice Press is a great publisher with some amazing writers.
In honor of this Martin Luther King Jr. Day, we share this prayer from Rev. Dr. Michael W. Waters from his new book, Something in the Water: A 21st Century Civil Rights Odyssey.
A PRAYER FOR HOLY SOLES
teach me to pray
with my feet.
The steps of the ancestors were sturdy and strong.
They somehow carried them to cut down strange fruit
dangling in the breeze.
Up and down Montgomery’s hills,
To mass meetings, lunch counters, and courthouses
To face canines, tear gas, and water hoses
As bullets and bombs wrought martyrs,
Their blood still crying out from the deep.
teach me to pray with my feet.
For those felled while adorned with hoodie, for those who still can’t breathe, for those whose hearts have been broken under the weight of fathers suffocated on the street,
with hands raised,
For Water Protectors,
For Hijab-wearing Sisters and their Brothers,
For the Dreamers,
LORD God Almighty,
teach me how to pray
with my feet,
That I might become a drum major for justice,
To march around Jericho’s walls
And monuments to White Supremacy,
Till they come stumbling down;
That I might say,
As did Mother Pollard to young Martin,
“My feets is tired, but my soul is rested.”
And that You, LORD God almighty,
May one day say to me,
“You have beautiful feet.”
The Reverend Dr. Michael W. Waters is founding pastor of Abundant Life African Methodist Episcopal (A.M.E.) Church in Dallas, Texas. As a pastor, professor, award-winning author, activist, and social commentator, his words of hope and empowerment inspire national and international audiences. (from Chalice Press newsletter, 1/18/2021
Join people from all over the country
We finished our Thanksgiving Dinner a couple of hours ago. Our two younger kids, Paul and River, took care of preparing the meal and cleaning up afterward this year. It was the greatest gift of the holiday (They did a bang-up job by the way!) Margaret wasn’t up to all the physical activity and I was, well, blah.
The holidays are harsh reminders of the loss of my son Jeremy this year. I used to wonder why some people had such a difficult time during the holidays. Now I know.
The week hasn’t been conducive to thankful feelings. On Tuesday, we were finally allowed to clear out Jeremy’s apartment and Art Studio. Everything’s been on hold as he died intestate – no will and minor children – and the court finally ordered the necessary letters to the apartment management. The owner is a local Fort Worth real estate developer that denied us access until we had a court order despite pleas from our family. We still wonder if any of Jeremy’s art is missing. Oh well. Everything is in storage now and out of their hands.
I was flooded with memories and emotion as I went through his belongings. I’ve tried to be strong throughout this process, but I haven’t done well. I feel and function. That’s it. I miss my son and the holidays are a cruel reminder of loss rather than a season of joy and gratitude.
I had to spend time today writing down the things for which I’m thankful because I know I have much to be grateful for even during this crazy, wild-ass year. Gratitude is a verb, not a noun. Sometimes I simply put it in black and white, make it tangible and concrete, and say thanks even when I don’t feel particularly grateful. It makes the whole grief thing a bit easier.
The first thing I wrote down was my breakfast this morning with my oldest son, Adrian. We started a holiday tradition of having breakfast at Old South Pancake House every Thanksgiving and Christmas morning. Our time together can be lost juggling holiday schedules with adult children, grandchildren, and blended extended families. It’s a time just for us and it’s even more special this year. It was risky going out in public even with social distancing, masks, and hand sanitizer. Covid numbers are surging upward here, but my time with him was worth it.
I’m thankful for family and friends that love me and don’t try to fix my broken heart. They occasionally remind me that God’s got this when I get in a deep, dark place, but they still allow me the room to grieve. Not everyone does that. Well-intentioned people say some screwed-up things to grieving parents. I’m grateful my close friends and family allow me to be where I am emotionally, even when it’s uncomfortable for them. We’ll all get through this together.
This has been a messed-up year, but in the middle of the madness I’ve found something to be grateful for. That gives me hope. It won’t always feel like this…