Catch More Fish

I love random, unusual moments.  So imagine my surprise when a random fishing moment came my way in Old Saybrook, Connecticut.   My friend, Arabella, and I were there for a conference but had arrived early enough to have some free time.  After lunch we decided to walk along the waterfront and fill our nostrils with the smell of salt water.  Apparently, it was a great day for fishing.  The dock was filled with fishermen, all of whom seemed to be having great success.  Nice, big, blue fish were being pulled from the water like clockwork.  Arabella and I stood watching for a few minutes.  It wasn't long before Arabella, in her lovely southern way, began chatting away with one of these young fishermen.  He told us that the temperature of the water was perfect this day.  The water was 68 degrees and filled with fish.  2 degrees higher and the fish would be elsewhere. 

"Want to reel one in?" he asked us.  I was the one who was quick to respond.  "Sure," I said.  I asked him how we'd know when a fish was on.  He pointed to the top of his fishing pole.  "You'll see this pole nearly bend in half when a fish is hooked."  Sure enough, two minutes later we saw the pole bend under the weight of its catch. I grabbed the rod and began to reel it in.  Never having caught a big fish before I was a little surprised at the aerobic workout I was instantly getting.  Arabella must have seen the beads of sweat I was starting to produce because she was right there to help.  She supported the rod so I could just focus on reeling.  When the fish got close enough to shore the fisherman grabbed his net, climbed over the chain link fence, and netted it.  A few seconds later I was holding a pretty nice catch of the day.

Now, believe me when I say I fully see the humor in this picture.  It's quite apparent I wasn't intending to go on a fishing expedition.  But maybe that was what was so fun about the whole thing.  It truly was one of the those random moments.  After washing fish residue off my hands I thanked the fisherman and got ready to leave.  I was told the fish was mine to keep, but not being prepared to cook up fish that night, I opted for catch and release.  The fish went back to the water and Arabella and I went off to our evening class.

Later that night as I laid in bed, the Lord began to speak to my heart.  He indicated that He wanted to talk about fishing.  He began to show me that my random fishing moment was a picture of something bigger.  In essence, it was a modern parable.  He retook me through the whole experience, but this time He showed me several principles for fishing for men. 

They were:
 Put your hand in the hand of Jesus.  This is the foundation of good fishing.  If we remain in Him and remain attentive, He will show us the fish.
~ The Lord brought back to mind my parting handshake given to the fisherman.  For some reason my left hand extended making a handshake impossible.  Instead my hand was clasped inside his for a brief second.  The Lord showed me that is exactly what He wants of us in relationship to Him.  He wants our hand to be squarely planted in His.  In other words, He wants us to be intimately connected with Him, able to listen to His voice.

 Lay aside differences and work in unity.  The church is to work in unity to bring the harvest in.  It will take all kinds of people and all kinds of giftings to get the job done.
~ I thought back to the four of us who helped bring in this fish.  Our differences were quite stark, the most obvious being that two of us were not dressed for fishing!  But for several minutes we didn't focus on our differences, rather we worked in perfect unity for a specific purpose...bringing a fish to shore. Which brings me to the next point...

Focus on the objective.  We lay aside our differences for the purpose of focusing on the objective, bringing in the harvest that He shows us.
~ The four of us worked well together not because we thought alike or came from the same background or shared the same political views.  We worked well because we all focused on the same objective-Let's get this fish ashore.

Know the temperature of the water.  Jesus is the one who truly knows when the harvest is ready, but if we stay close to Him, He will show us when the temperature of someone's heart is ready for harvest.  It is only by being in close communication with Him that we'll know the signs of a harvest being ready.  A good fisherman knows when the fish are there and are ready to come in.
~ The fisherman on the dock that day knew the water temperature.  They knew the fish would be there in abundance and they were prepared.

Don't be afraid to get your hands dirty.  We may be called into some uncomfortable moments in bringing others from darkness into the light.  Can we be willing to get some dirt on our hands to bring people out of darkness?  Can we be willing to make ourselves vulnerable and be made uncomfortable at times?
~ It was with great pride that I held up this fish for a photo.  Only after throwing it back in did I realize how dirty my hands had become.  The Lord showed me that it was a good dirt.  The dirty hands were worth it when seeing that fish ashore.  Likewise, helping people come out of darkness is worth any good dirt that it causes.

All are called to fish.   I used to think that the work of fishing for men was strictly for the evangelists.  Apparently it's not.  The Lord showed me that He has called all of His church to be fishers of men.  Each one of us can be involved in the process one way or another.  You may be an intercessor who prays faithfully for people, or you may be one who plants seeds.  You may be the person who encourages the people with evangelism gifts, or you may be the person who helps bring healing or discipleship into a new believer's life.  Fishing for men encompasses a whole lot.
~ I thought back to how many steps there were in bringing that one blue fish to shore.  One person had to put the right bait on the line.  Someone then placed that line in the water.  One person watched for the rod to bend.  Someone then grabbed the rod and began to reel.  Another person helped steady and hold the rod.   While someone hopped the fence to net the fish, someone else was keeping a close eye on his buddy ensuring he wouldn't fall in.  All in all, several steps occurred to catch that fish.

Now I'm back home from my weekend in Old Saybrook.  I have no fish in my freezer but just a fish tale to tell.  I threw my fish back to the water and now I throw my fish tale out there to you with an invitation.  Will you fish for men?  Will you do the work that God has for you to do to help bring in the harvest.  I think we if work together in unity, with our hands in the Father's, we may just find that we truly catch more fish!

Words From the Cross

     With Easter a mere two weeks away, I find myself pondering the cross and its meaning to our lives.  Particularly, I have been thinking about some of Christ's words from the cross.  "It is finished," or "It is done," as The Message puts it, is the line that has struck me the most.  In pondering this, there were two pictures that came to mind.  This first picture is of an adder about to consume a very unaware robin.  It makes me wonder if this was how Satan felt when Jesus hung on the cross moments before his death.  Did Satan think he was going to be victor?  One thing is for certain, this picture represents us before Christ's atoning death.  Before Christ's words "It is finished," we all stood like robins subject to the adder's bite.  But fortunately this picture wasn't the end of the story.  When Christ said "It is done," he turned this picture on its head.  Actually, he reversed it.  When Jesus said "It is done," the bird essentially turned and crushed the serpent's head.  This brings us to the second picture.

     Above is a picture I just painted expressing this concept.  I call it The Power of the Cross.  Jesus' words from the cross were not just mere words, they were power filled.  There is power in the cross.  There is a done, a doing, and another done to be found in the cross.  "It is done," meant redemption has been accomplished.  The road to God was made accessible; sins can now be forgiven; the debt has been satisfied.  This is the first 'done.'  

     But it doesn't end there.  I'm reminded of a scene from The Return of the King movie where Pippin and Gandolf stand in the fortress as Gondor is being attacked.  Pippin looks up into Gandolf's face and says "I didn't think it would end this way."  Gandolf  looks down at a nervous Pippin and says "End?  No the journey doesn't end here.  Death is just another path, one that we all must take.  Then you see it."

     "See what?" asks Pippin.

     "Grey rain curtains of this world roll back, all turns to silver glass, white shores and beyond a far green country and a swift sunrise.  Doesn't sound too bad," Gandolf replies.

     "No, it doesn't."

     In a sense this is true of the cross as well.  The purpose of redemption was accomplished, but that wasn't the end of the story.  One chapter ended but another began.  Christ released the power of the cross in his words "It is Done."  Through his obedience he reversed the picture of the adder and the bird.  The dove descended and crushed the serpent's head.  And now he invites us to do the same.  He has made it possible for us to also release the power of the cross.
     The cross is a beautiful picture of an intersection.  It is a picture of what happens when evil intersects with holiness.  Or maybe it's a collision of the two.  When that collision happens the dove is released to crush the serpent's head.   That's 'the doing' of the cross to which we are invited to participate in.  We release this dove, this power, when addictions are confessed and broken, when another person is brought into the kingdom, when sins are repented of, and when another broken person is brought to wholeness.  This is 'the doing' of the cross.  It is ongoing.  The persecuted church lives this reality daily.  Evil collides with their righteousness on a regular basis and they have to make a choice.  Do they respond in their human strength or do they release the power of the cross.  Most often they choose the latter and the dove comes and a little more darkness gets swallowed by the light.

      This process goes on till the final done.  The final done is Christ's return when 'It is finished' will mean something different.  It will mean the evil, the suffering, the curse is done. Its time of existence is over--finished.  Till then we live between the first and second done.  His kingdom came after the first done but will culminate in its fullness with the second one.  Satan was stripped of his authority on earth with the first done but will be extinguished with the second one.  Till then we crush his head repeatedly, releasing the cross' power, understanding that when we do the light pierces another piece of the darkness.  We continue this process of bringing in the light of Christ's presence till he returns and all the darkness is swallowed up completely.
     In the process of painting this picture, I wanted to show the collision of evil and holiness by painting the top of the cross, above the horizontal beam, all white and gold to represent glory and holiness.  Below this beam is black paint, thick and chunky in texture, it represents the evil that intersects with God's righteousness.  It is in this collision that the dove swoops down into the darkness bringing its light and glory with it.  The bird crushes the snake, holiness collides with evil, and the chains of death get broken, throwing open the gates of heaven to all who believe.
     So as I ponder the cross this Easter, I stand with Gandolf in waiting for the final day when the grey rain curtains of this world roll back, longing for the white shores and green country.  Yet, I do this longing not without hope because the dove continues to swoop down and push back the darkness, inviting us to live in this power, in this hope, as we continue to live between the first done and the second one, waiting for the white shores and green country when evil will be banished forever.

Upstairs and Downstairs: A Look at Downton Abbey.

     If you're a Downton Abbey addict then the above title needs no further explanation.  But to those of you who aren't, here's the simple explanation.  In an estate such as Downton, the aristocracy live upstairs; the servants live downstairs.
     Downton Abbey, now in its third season, has given us an up close look at the world of nobility and those who serve them.  But in this third season the future of the estate has been threatened by a financial pitfall.  Amidst the ever mounting drama one night, an interesting comment caused me pause.  Someone remarked that the loss of the estate might not be such a bad thing, for isn't it just a life of pageantry?  And what's so bad about that ending?
     Now maybe it's just me but good writing always takes my mind to 101 places.  In this case I instantly thought of the church and my own spiritual journey from above the stairs to beneath them.  Yes, you heard me right, upstairs to down.
     For many years I felt like church was pageantry of a spiritual kind.  It was the place where people came dressed in their finery and paraded their good deeds.  The Noble words of Christendom were dropped like a symbol of spiritual arrival.  Everyone came to church ready to be seated at the right hand of the Father.
      Of course I knew it was pageantry.  As the facts of people's lives dribbled out, as they always do, I came to know that underneath the three piece suits and freshly pressed dresses were sinners of the regular kind, and some not so regular, committing all the sins the Old Testament will take you through.
     Now, I'm not writing this to say that dressing up for church is right or wrong but rather that sheer pageantry is.  Church pageantry is focused on doing externals in one's own strength.  It is appearing to be outwardly clean while carrying a dirty heart.  It's like Lady Mary moving a dead body in the middle of the night and then showing up at the breakfast table in her finest.  It is doing good deeds for the sake of appearance while hating one's neighbor.  It is doing the work of the spirit without being connected to the power of it.  This takes us to being downstairs.
     If you are downstairs, then you are a servant.  First and foremost, it means that you know your place.  For us to live a life empty of pageantry, we must know our place before the Father.  Anyone who has traveled the road to Christendom, knows that if you truly are one of the Father's children, then you will come to a place of shedding the fancy airs, and make yourself comfortable in the on-your-face position before Him.  He loves it when we move "downstairs."  Once we know our place, He has us exactly where He wants us.  Then comes education.
     The footmen at Downton have shown us there is a learning curve, even in servitude.  "That's what you get for teaching him to run before he could walk." Thomas remarks about a new footman in his typical snarky way.  And truthfully, we do have a lot to learn.  But until we know our place, the pride we hold keeps us out of the classroom.
     In the opening credits of the show we see a wall which rings the various bells to alert the staff as to what is needed.  It's one means of communication between the Master of the house and the servants beneath.  Listening to God is certainly a learned discipline.  It is a discipline we will never learn if we remain upstairs in pretentious pageantry.  It's something we'll never learn as long as we keep shifting "dead bodies" around in secret.  But, if we come downstairs we will learn the "various callings" of the Father.  We'll learn when He is prompting our hearts to action and when He is speaking.  A good servant will respond in action.  We begin by walking and over time become able to discern better and eventually run.
     So in the end, we can say that a good servant knows his place, listens to his Master, and obeys his instructions.  Isn't that what God calls of all His people?  It seems that He is looking for us to be downstairs people.  Is that so bad?  In the end we even find ourselves seated at the finest feast of all...
     Imagine that, a feast for the downstairs people, given by the Master of the house (Or in this case, the universe.)
    "Let us rejoice and be glad and give Him the glory!  For the wedding of the Lamb has come..."
"Then the angel said to me, "Write: 'Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!'  And he added, "these are the true words of God." Revelation 19:7a and 9.

The People that in Darkness Sat: From Advent to Epiphany

     I like the season of Advent.  I appreciate that the church year makes room for our seasons of sadness, doubt, fear and grief.  The church years allows us times to lament and actually encourages us to do so.
     The People that in Darkness Sat is one of my favorite Advent hymns.  It's especially meaningful when you  understand that darkness is just the absence of light.  But behold a light has come.   Matthew 4:16 says "The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the Shadow of death a light has dawned."
     Today we can still relate to the words of this great hymn.  For we too sit in darkness.  We experience the  darkness of the spirit of the age wherein we live.  We experience the weight of continuing to live under a curse.  All this causes us to need times like Advent to reflect and ponder.
     This year I came to Advent with a heaviness of heart.  Certain family members were struggling with serious health issues which weighed heavily on me.  In pouring through the incoming Christmas letters I was further saddened to see a theme this past year in the loss of babies.  A number of stillborn and miscarriages occurred in several friend's lives.
     But once again the Bible understands this pain and the ongoing grief.  This too was even a piece of the Christmas story.  Matthew 2:18  "A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted because they are no more."
     The Christmas story allows us to enter into it with hearts that have been broken or are currently aching with grief.  This Christmas story offers us hope because we still need it.  We desperately need that light which came so many years ago.  And we continue to long for the fulfillment of the promise that one day that very light will eradicate the darkness completely.
     Isaiah 60:1 "Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you."  This is the passage we read on Epiphany.  We are called to let this light fill us and thus shine in the darkness.  And from scripture we see that we can do this even in the midst of our own trials and grief.
     Without the light we are sunk.  We are left with darkness and the holly jolly, consumerist bustle of the season which never satisfies.  The cookies, festivities, and the songs about sleigh rides and snow leave us unable to pull ourselves out of the mire.  We truly cannot make ourselves merry, only a light piercing through the darkness can do that.

Swinging in the Father's Love

I am still thinking about the ending of a movie that I just watched. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is a wonderful and well made movie about the journey of a young boy with aspergers who has just lost his father in one of the the Twin Towers on 9/11. The young boy's father had  been a  source of great wisdom with regards to knowing how to help his son overcome the particular challenges that he faced.

 In a wealth of creativity the father planned great expeditions for his son where he would have to use many clues to solve a mystery or arrive at a destination his father had picked out. The father played upon his son's strength by knowing that he thought in patterns, but challenged him in areas where he was inhibited or fearful.

It was a sad and grievous day when the young boy comes home from school to hear his father leaving a message on the home answering machine. The father reports that he is trying to get home but the towers have been struck and they are waiting for further evacuation instructions. The father calls one last time to say goodbye but his son is too swallowed by fear in the moment to answer the phone, a memory that will haunt him. The father never does make it out of the tower and the son is left trying to make sense of his death.

This young boy who sees the world through a lens of patterns suddenly finds himself unable to cope with this loss. He struggles to find some grid or pattern that he can place this death into but he finds none. In an attempt to cope the boy sets up his own expedition by setting out to find the lock box which fits a key that he discovers in his father's old things.

It is a long and difficult journey. In the end he does find what the key goes to but it has nothing to do his father. Through the journey though some life changing things have occurred and the movie ends with the boy going to a location where he and his dad used to go. He goes to a swing where his dad used to sit and talk to him.  Their time together would always end with the father showing him how enjoyable swinging could be. The young boy however was always too fearful to even sit on the swing.

On this particular day however, he walks over to the swing and flips it over to discover a note taped on the bottom of the swing. It was a note from his father to him. A note that he would have discovered at the end of the expedition his father was doing with him before he died. In a moment of sheer joy the boy reads the note and allows himself to relish his father's love. In this moment nothing is said in the movie but something profound takes place. The boy hops up on the swing and begins to swing. It is slow in the beginning but recalling all that his dad had taught him he begins to pump and go higher and faster. The movie ends with the boy swinging high on the swing with sheer joy across his face. No fear, no worries, just love.

It makes perfect sense if you think about it. Perfect love casts out fear. The boy had not made sense of his father's death. He never did find a pattern to place it in, but what he did find was affirmation of his father's love for him. And ultimately that love was enough. In that love the boy found himself able to relax, and in that resting place he found himself able to overcome his greatest fear.

I find that this is a wonderful picture for us of our heavenly father as well. We may struggle to find answers for our earthly suffering and sometimes we don't get the answers we seek. In the end what we can count on is the Father's love. In that love we can rest and can find the secret that this young boy did... perfect love always overcomes our fears.

Farewell to Ajax

THE FACT: Ajax the ram is dead.

ADDITIONAL FACT: It took 3 of us to heave his body into the ATV's wagon to haul him off.

INTERESTING FACT: This marks the first time we've ever been able to move him without him fighting us back. (Even with the stiffness of rigormortis, we still reflexively expected him to kick us off.)

HIS RANK: Ajax was the Alpha Ram. We have carnage to prove it.

THE PROOF: Several smashed gates and injured rams.

WHY: He was a specimen in size and strength (not to mention attitude.)

MODERN COMPARISON: I imagine that when the other rams looked at him it was much like what Rocky Balboa felt when he first saw his Russian opponent.

WHAT ROCKY THOUGHT WHEN HE SAW THE RUSSIAN: HOLY CRAP!!

OTHER NAMES FOR AJAX: The pirate

WHY: He wore a black patch over his eyes. This gave him peripheral vision only.

WHY HE WORE IT: Due to his aggressive nature he routinely beat up other rams, in one case breaking a smaller rams leg. The eye patch helped even the playing field. Like making the stronger opponent fight with one arm tied behind his back.

HOW DID WE GET THE PATCH ON HIM: With much sweat and tears.

THE PHYSICAL RESULT ON US: One of us got covered in black and blues. One of us threw our back out. Both of us got covered in sweat and manure.

WHAT THE WASHING MACHINE THOUGHT: Why do you always have so much manure on your clothes?

WHAT THE KIDS CALLED AJAX: Meanie.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE RAM WITH THE BUSTED LEG: He got moved over into the ewe side of the barn.

HIS RESPONSE TO HIS NEW LIVING QUARTERS: Hello Ladies! Wink, Wink.

THE EWES RESPONSE: Buzz off, this is not your lucky day.

THE RAMS ASSESSMENT: Ewes are not mean like rams. They do not fight all day.

WHAT THE RAM LEARNED: When ewes say they are not in the mood they mean it. They can be ugly if you don't listen.

WHEN DO RAMS GET LUCKY: When the ewes are in estrus.

WHEN DOES THAT HAPPEN: Not often enough from the rams perspective.

WHAT THE RAM SAID TO AJAX REGARDING HIS NEW LIVING ARRANGEMENT: Nah Ne, Nah Ne, Nah Nah.

WHAT AJAX SAID BACK: I'll huff and puff and blow this gate down. Then we'll see who's the boss man.

DID THE EWES GO IN ESTRUS: Yes.

WERE THE RAMS HAPPY: Yes!

WHO WASN'T HAPPY: Ajax.

WHY EVER NOT: He was not going to be used for breeding this round, So he was kept separate.

WHAT WAS HIS RESPONSE: He huffed and puffed and smashed the steel cattle gate to smithereens.

WHAT DID HE LOOK LIKE AFTERWARDS: Like Rocky Balboa after he fought the Russian.

WHAT DID THE GATE LOOK LIKE: Dangling metal wind chimes.

IS SHEEP FARMING IN VERMONT PROFITABLE: No

ALTERNATIVE BUSINESS: Sell Vermont made wind chimes.

POSSIBLE NAME OF PRODUCT: Ajaxian wind chimes.

THE CONCLUSION TO THE DEATH OF AJAX
THE HUSBAND THOUGHT: He was 7 years old. It was his time to go.

THE WIFE THOUGHT: I'm going to end up back in Physical therapy from lifting him one last time.

THE KIDS THOUGHT: Good riddance--he was mean.

WHAT A VERMONT POTHEAD WOULD THINK: It's okay man, all sheep go to heaven.

WHAT THE WIFE IMAGINES: Ajax waiting in line at the gate to sheep heaven.

WHAT THE WIFE KNOWS: Ajax would never wait in any line. Ajax would not be deterred by any kind of gate.

WIFE'S FINAL THOUGHT: Sheep heaven with its very first set of Ajaxian wind chimes.

The Overcoat

I was small when the creature came to my older sister. He was a sneaky little thing, sometimes looking like a man, sometimes like a demon. When he came to my sister that first night so many years ago, he had held out an overcoat, encouraging my sister to put it on. The first time he did it, she balked at him. “That's not my coat,” she argued. “It's not even my size.”

“This coat has a magic to it,” he said. “It will adjust to whoever puts it on. Try it and see,” the creature said.

I stayed hidden under the bed, wondering if she'd try it on. I could see my sister's tiny brain wheels struggling to spin. If this was a trick she'd avoid it, not wanting to be duped. But if she could gain something like magic, that would give her power to inflict trouble on me, her younger sister, then she'd do it in a heartbeat.

The creature suddenly changed his tactic. “Okay,” he said. “Just touch the coat, feel the fabric. I promise you'll find it to be familiar to you. You'll recognize it, like an old friend.”

At this my sister jumped. She's always been a sucker for part way commitments; a way to dip your toes in the water without fully jumping in. I watched my sister lay the coat over her lap and close her eyes. Her fingers pressed down and stroked the fabric. Soon she was touching it like she was patting the arm of a relative. The little creature was right, my sister recognized something. She identified with the coat. Within minutes she was slipping her arms through and tightening the coat around her.

I wanted to smack my head against the floorboard I was lying on. I never would have been so stupid to have fallen for his tricks. I was the pragmatic one, but that day I witnessed the magic with my own two eyes. I saw that coat suddenly contort and shrink to fit my sister's body perfectly. The creature did a little dance when it happened. Then he was gone, not gone like when someone exits, but gone as in he vanished instantly. He had vaporized! Lucky for me I was lying down on the floor already because otherwise I would have fainted.

Unfortunately, I couldn't hold back the gasp that came hurling out my mouth. That's when my sister discovered me. She had been dancing around the room just like the creature had done when she heard me. She bent down in the direction of the bed and looked at me with a face red with fury. Before I could even flinch she had gotten a hold of my right foot and yanked my body out from its hiding spot. I cringed as my bony pelvic bone was dragged across the uneven floor boards.

“Why are you spying on me?!” she demanded. “How much have you seen?”

I stood, both hands pressed on my pelvis, looking at her. I was trembling, trying to process just how much I should confess to. Before I could get any words out, her hand came at my cheek with a hammering thud. Then a barrage of words came out her mouth as she shoved me up against the back wall. The anger and contempt oozing from her was surprising but eerily familiar. Then I knew...it was mother! It was mother's anger; it was mother's words just tumbled around in a slightly different order.

“Take it off,” I screamed. “Take the coat off!” I grabbed at the sleeve to help her while she was struggling to free herself from its clutches. The coat itself was resisting the shedding. The more we pulled, the harder the coat fastened itself around her.

My sister's eyes grew wide with fear. In utter panic we combined our strength and determination to pry her free. Together, we threw the coat across the room and we both stood there motionless, each of us a bundle of raw nerves. From the corner of the room the overcoat turned once again back into the large oversized coat that it was before.

My sister and I looked in horror as we observed this. “Is it living?” I asked.

“It's powerful, familiar and oddly comfortable,” she said. “You try it,” she urged. “See what happens to you.”

“No,” I shouted. “I don't trust it.”

“I'm not surprised,” she said with a smirk. “You've always been afraid of power.”

“I..am..n..not,” I stammered. “I'm just not stupid. I'm not going to trust what that creepy little thing says. Didn't you look into his eyes?”

Of course I knew that she hadn't. She never looked at anything. She listened, and she navigated her world by what she heard and perceived to be true, what she wanted to hear. I was the owl. Always watching what others have missed. The owl is the silent observer. You don't know he's there, able to rotate his head and see everything. I always look into people's eyes. Eyes are the truest window that exists. I trust that more than words any day. Words can be slick and slippery, but eyes can never lie.

“Look at what that coat did to you. You attacked me. It was like Mom in one of her rages!” I said.

“How dare you!” she retorted. “Don't accuse me of being like Mom. You're just jealous because it gave me power. You're jealous because the creature chose me and not you.”

At that, we both marched out of the room and off to separate corners of the house. But both our minds could not steer away from pondering all that had happened.

Unbeknownst to me, my sister returned to that coat many more times. She befriended the creature, who claimed he had no name. She always wore the coat when she was with him and she listened to all his instructions. She deemed him to be the wisest of all her friends. But I remained skeptical. I had seen enough in his eyes to be wary, but now he'd claimed to have no name and that was the nail in the coffin for me. He'd never win me over. Why my sister couldn't see the red flags, I don't know. From where I was standing they were practically swatting her in the face. And she calls me the stupid one!

Eventually my sister was able to summon the creature whenever she wanted him. This gave her a great feeling of power, as she viewed him as an indentured servant who answered to her beck and call.

I'm convinced this was all part of his scheme. While she thought she was calling the shots, in actuality she was the mouse being toyed with.

Over time the coat became so comfortable and so familiar that my sister never wanted to take it off.It was then that the creature did his grandest trick of all. He made the coat invisible. I watched the whole thing with one eye peeking out an opening in the bed-covers. It happened late at night. He had come to her with the coat neatly folded like a package. He helped her into it and she fastened the buttons and tightened it's belt. “Close your eyes, my dear,” he said. “I'm about to make the coat yours forever.” My sister grinned and closed her eyes. My eyes were now both wide open and watching in horror as the creature walked around my sister several times muttering something under his breath while waving his arms like a drunken conductor. And I swear to you that I did not blink...I saw that coat become invisible!

“The coat is now part of you forever,” he said. “It can never be taken from you. You will always be surrounded by a great power. You don't need me anymore,” No Name continued. “You only need to listen to yourself. You will discover the depth of your own wisdom.” With that, No Name vanished once and for all.

I could see a great pride that was filling my sister's head. She strutted around the room in her invisible coat like she was walking the red carpet. Meanwhile, I found myself shaking in my bed. Fear had me by the throat, while dread had seized my bones. I laid there recounting what the creature had told her. I tried to imagine my sister as a well of wisdom, but in fact she was a mere puddle of impulse.

Surely the creature must have known this. So I then concluded that he was a great liar. I watched my sister for a moment as I shuddered to think of power in the hands of such a rash imbecile.

Seasons came and went in our well weathered farmhouse. The old two by fours of the house weren't strong enough to keep out the winds of change, and my sister and I grew from childhood into adults. It was as adults that the difference between us was the starkest. My sister became angrier and more violent over the years. The particular vices that she had, came to define her. She seemed to be disappearing while her vices appeared to be taking on a life of their own. Though the coat was fully invisible, it now seemed to be the embodiment of who my sister was. My sister was becoming more shadowy, a mere ghost of her former self.

As an adult I stayed away from my sister and her destructive ways. Yet I always struggled to to make sense of the mystery of all that had happened in the bedroom in our little farmhouse back so many years ago.

I never disbelieved all that had happened with the overcoat back in our childhood, but as an adult I grew to not expect the unusual, the unexplainable anymore until...well, it happened again. The unexpected burst through my walls of sensibility and swept me up into it once again.

Spring had come like an emerald jewel on Mother Nature's hand. I spent much time roaming the orchards and woods out back of my property. It was there in the orchard where a gentle wind came one day. It danced around me as it whispered in my ear. At first I thought I'd imagined the voice. It was gentle and soft, almost easy to dismiss, but when it spoke again, it said my name. Suddenly, two hands came out from the wind and touched my eyes. It was then that I saw her, the one to whom the voice belonged. She was unimaginably beautiful. Everything about her was serene and billowy. Her gown flowed all around her. Her hair was a symphony of movement as it swirled through the air.

I blinked, strained my eyes harder trying to convince myself that I wasn't looking through her. I began to question my judgment. Was I dreaming this, going crazy, hallucinating? I had been stressed lately. My sister was terminally sick and she was making hell for all of us, in spite of our kindness towards her. Dealing with her had become near impossible.

The woman must have read my mind, for she interrupted my thoughts. “My name is Wisdom,” she said. “And yes, you can see through me. I'm very much like a wind that can blow through a university classroom or through the heart of a child. I can come soft and gentle like a summer breeze or I can come like a tornado uprooting the handiwork of ignorance.”

Wisdom now had my full attention as we strolled through the orchard. Her voice was melodic and soothing. She was like a balm on an unattended wound. I instantly felt calm. But just as I relaxed, her demeanor sharply changed. Her voice became serious; she grabbed my shoulders and looked at me with blazing eyes.

“I must speak to you about the overcoat,” she said. “I know full well about the creature and your sister's involvement with him. Your sister's time upon this earth is almost over. When she is gone the creature will come to you. He will apply a far more clever and cunning plan to trick you into taking the coat. You see, he must keep the coat going in the family line for generation upon generation. His trickery has gotten better over the years. He will present the coat to you in a manner that you will not recognize. He's gotten better at subtlety.”

“He's gotten wise,” I said offhandedly.

Wisdom's face grew stern. “Never call him wise again in my presence! There is no piece of me coursing through his veins. He is crafty and evil. He has rejected me long ago. Now he lives completely in his own folly. That is why he has no name; he lost it! He was born with a name, and a noble one at that, but by rejecting Wisdom and my sister Truth he became his worst traits. Eventually, he lost his very person-hood and became a creature of the night, left to roam the earth forever and tempt others to succumb to their own vices, and thus lose themselves in the process.”

“I don't understand it, Wisdom,” I said. “Why did the coat have so much power? What did it do to my sister?” I pleaded.

“Do you not see it, my child?,” she said. “Aren't your eyes fully opened? You yourself said your sister was like your mother once she put the coat on. Don't you see what it is?” With this she put her hands across my eyes for the second time. This time Wisdom flowed into me and I could see it clearly now.

Wisdom spoke with a clear and serious tone. “The coat is called the family coat of dysfunction. Look at it through my eyes and see it through the lens of me,” she said.

Suddenly, I saw the coat. It was black, not like NY fashionable black, but hellish black, as in the lack of color and beauty. It's sleeves were long to hide shame from its wearer's eyes, to keep them in self denial. It was long to hide much evil doing. Its belt was to tighten around its owner so to eventually choke the life out of them. Its darkness was a symbol of what they'd become once given over to their vices—a no name creature of the night.

Now it all made perfect sense. This is why I shuddered in fear in the creature's presence. I must have had a piece of Wisdom in my heart so long ago.

“Please don't be angry with me for asking this question, Wisdom,” I said. “But, I just have to know. In the end, who is stronger—wisdom or evil? I have seen evil's great power many times and I've always felt powerless in it's grip.” My other question, which I kept to myself, was whether Wisdom had a garment that she bestowed on her followers.

Wisdom once again read my mind. She turned to me and said, “No, I offer no overcoat. I am the garment. Most who follow me begin the journey naked in their folly and I clothe them with wisdom along the way. I ask only that they point their feet in my direction and I take care of the rest.

Instantly, I turned myself fully in her direction. With that she blew on me and said, “Now, for your other question. I will just show you the answer.” A gentle breeze blew around me that was soft and delicate. It tickled the hair around my face, but then it changed and became stronger. It shook the trees in the orchard, causing all of nature to submit to it. A moment later the wind became violent and it overcame all that was in her path.

Wisdom told me to grab the hem of her gown, and when I did she flew with me hanging on, like she was an angel which was heaven bound. But, mid-air she swelled and became larger and more magnificent so I could no longer make out that of a female form. A glory filled the space around her which kept spreading out till it encompassed all that was in its path.

I was barely breathing at this point. My mind hardly able to take it all in. Something was emanating from wisdom which was filling the world. Without warning, Wisdom's dress swelled into the body of a great white Stallion, upon which I now sat. She then carried me back down to the earth with a power stronger than the earth's elements. We rode like thunder. From the Stallion's back I could see that whatever it was that was emanating out from Wisdom was overtaking everything which wasn't wise.

The creatures of the night were being pushed further and further back till they were gone. For a moment I remembered all those years ago when I trembled underneath my bed feeling so powerless. I had just a crumb of wisdom in my heart back then, but, here I was now, riding off in glory, a participant in the fullness of Wisdom and all the Truth and Beauty that came with her.

“What do you think now?,” said Wisdom. I smiled as I gripped her neck for all I was worth. It was this day that I set my face like flint in her direction and determined that I would never look back. Little did I know the weight that came from that decision. In an instant I saw the overcoat out of the corner of my eye and it was flying straight towards me at an unbelievable speed. Suddenly it hit what seemed to be an invisible barrier, and then as if it were stuffed with lead, it fell to the ground, sinking and burning a deep hole into the earth where it landed.

“You did well,” whispered Wisdom. “You are following me with your whole being. Some follow only partially , or for their own selfish gain. This leaves them unprotected from the coat. But you have let me flow through all of you, your will, your heart, and your mind. You truly desired my full company without pondering your own ambition. When No Name attempted to try and blindside you with it, have it hit you unaware, it couldn't touch you. Your choice to follow me had such weight that it provided a boundary line which neither the coat nor the creature could cross. The coat hit the barrier and fell to the earth with the heaviness of defeat.

I looked at the newly formed hole in the earth, knowing the coat was now buried in the bowels beneath, never to bother me again. Wisdom smiled and grabbed my hand as she placed something in it.She told me to sprinkle it over the opening where the coat now lay. As I did, an oak tree sprung up in the spot along with a garden of wildflowers.

“That's another thing you should know about me,” said Wisdom. “I can grow good things out of the soil of evil. The creatures of the night have no power like that.

I suddenly realized what she meant. The power my sister had in the coat was power for evil's sake. It was for harm and not for good. But the power Wisdom offered overwhelmed evil and left only goodness in its path. Even one seed of Wisdom in someone's heart was greater than all the power within the coat.

Wisdom and I walked around the beautiful oak and enjoyed the garden when she noticed I was sleepy. “You should rest,” she told me. “Lie down by the tree and get the slumber you need.”

I did sleep by the tree that day and I returned to it every day thereafter. I continued to spend my days among the orchards and wildflowers, enjoying a life which was full, with a heart which remained unburdened. My pursuit of Wisdom remained constant over the passage of time.

As the years bore on, the hairs on my head turned silver and my heart grew weak. Wisdom undoubtedly knew of my frailty because when she returned to me, in this my elder years, she did so with ease and gentleness. It was like the acquaintance of an old and dear friend. This time I recognized her by her voice, her guise did not fool me one bit. I had walked with her now for so many years that I knew her many faces and saw her handiwork in many places,but it was always her voice which my heart knew most. She and I walked slowly through the orchards as we spoke of many things.

At one point, like she had so many years ago, she turned to me with a change in her demeanor and became quite serious. “Today you will rest once again by the old oak tree you've grown to love,” she said. “But this time you will not arise from your slumber. Your body will be discovered by your children and you will be put to rest in your beloved orchard.” I knew in my bones the truth of what she was telling me. I did not fear, but felt such gratitude for the many years which I had lived.

“Thank you Wisdom,” I said. “It all has been most wonderful and I shall miss you.”

“Miss me?” Wisdom laughed. “I forget that there is still so much you humans do not know. This sleep that you will now have is not the end. Just like the oak that sprung from the earth so many years ago, you too will arise from the ashes of this life, only to find a more beautiful you. A new chapter is beginning. Sleep now, my dear friend, for much awaits us, and I do mean much!”

At that I found myself hardly able to keep my eyes open. I lowered myself to the ground and laid underneath the protection of the great oak. Once again Wisdom appeared as a finely dressed woman. Though my eyes were closed and I was unable to see her, I recognized the finery of her gown as it swished by me and once again I instinctively reached out for her hem. And sure enough, she was right...but that my friend is a whole other story.

You Can't Handle the Truth!

It is 9/11 tomorrow. One certainly can't go through this day without some reflection. When I stop to think about the events of that day I naturally think about the topic of suffering, suffering on a big scale, not just that event but the suffering that takes place in every city, every country, in every life.

For many people the question is-- if there is a God then why so much suffering? There are many fine philosophers who have tackled this question, Alvin Plantinga, being one of my favorites. But on a personal level I have found myself thinking about this from a slightly different angle then before.

My summer reading included many stories of great suffering. In each of these stories some of the people lived and others perished. We usually resort to asking the question why did so and so have to die. Why didn't God spare them? This summer I found myself asking why did God grant that this person survive? I've begun to think that we view our lives with an attitude of entitlement. We believe in our core that we are entitled to life. But truly, life is a gift to us from the creator. When he has stepped in and spared our lives it is a gift that should fill us with great thankfulness. Whether we live or whether we die it is all in His hands. That is something I have no doubt of.

This summer I also heard two amazing personal life stories. One story involved a family who survived a Japanese concentration camp in Indonesia. The other story was that of a Vermont farm family who endured the deaths of several of their children, accidents, health issues and financial troubles. Both of these stories had a theme of a very strong prayer life running through them. This time when I listened to the concentration camp stories I found myself not asking why God had allowed many of His own to perish in there but being thankful in the fact that He allowed some to live through it. It is in no way saying that some were more deserving than others, or that God looked more favorably on this person over that one, but it is an example of unexplainable grace. That sometimes God in his love and mercy does not allow the lion to open his mouth and devour His child, or not allow the fiery furnace to consume. Sometimes, even in the horrors of concentration camps, or events like 9/11, some have been spared in rather miraculous ways. I believe in some small way it is one way that God keeps reminding us that yes, He is still present and yes, He is still in charge. It also serves as a reminder of what lies in store for His children in the end. In the end there will be life eternal. There will be complete healing. But for now He gives us glimpses of it through His gracious deliverances. These stories help encourage us to go on for we are once again reminded of what lies ahead.

As far as asking why to the question of suffering, I have this funny picture in my mind of Jack Nicholsen yelling that famous movie line "You can't handle the truth!" In a sense that is a very good response to all of us who stand wagging our fingers at God demanding that He tell us why. The fact is, we can't handle it, literally. In philosophical terms, we simply don't have the epistemological equipment to handle the answers were God to provide them. Jesus himself on the cross asked why he was forsaken. If you notice closely there is no answer given.

Richard Wurbrand tells this story: "A sufferer once came to a pastor and asked him many questions. The pastor answered, 'Kneel here in church and ask Jesus for the answers.' The man replied, 'Do you really think I will hear a voice from heaven?' 'No,' said the pastor, 'but by keeping quiet in prayer for several hours before God, you will realize that you can go along without answers to all your problems. This would have been Jesus' answer, and it will quiet you.' You do not need more than His peace, which passes all understanding. You do not need both peace and understanding, for understanding presupposes qualifications that most of us do not have."

So as I prepare to face all the 9/11 memories that will come tomorrow I will face them with peace and with hope. As for understanding, well I've come to understand that I may not have that understanding in this lifetime and well, that's okay, Peace and hope are enough.

Ordinary Time

Our pastor sometimes concludes our service by asking where we've seen God at work this week. The week of Thanksgiving I had an answer in mind. I had seen Him in my friend Emily. We had gone to Emily's house for Thanksgiving this year. Emily and her husband Jeremy have six children. Four of them are boys--Green Mountain Boys is what they call them. All of them bundles of endless energy and enthusiasm!

At one point Emily and I stood talking in the kitchen as she was preparing a baked apple dish. She had two neat rows of carved out apples which she stuffed with a raisin, brown sugary mix. She placed them in a Pyrex pan and set it on the counter. Just as she did, her 3 year old Green Mountain Boy decided to climb up on that same counter in search of something. As he did, all of his kinetic force came down on the counter, which caused the apple dish to fly off and spill. Now the whole apple dish was undone and strewn across the Linoleum floor.

I'm sure this occurrence wasn't out of the ordinary. But this day wasn't ordinary--it was Thanksgiving and we were their guests. Now, part of the meal was covering the floor like a Pollock art piece.

We all froze for a second, our eyes soaking in the scene. Anger, frustration, a stern scolding, none of it would have surprised me. But in the heat of the moment, grace is what bubbled up from Emily's core.

She scooped that little guy up and softly explained what went wrong. They exchanged a few more words and she ended the conversation by telling him that she forgave him. Then she further affirmed him with a hug and a kiss. She then set him down and he instantly bounded off looking for the next place his energy could land.

The whole scene, set against the backdrop of domestic life, once again reminded me of God's grace. It pops up again and again in ordinary time, in the hum drum of normal life. When we least deserve it, grace floods over us, even in moments of Green Mountain kinetic energy!

The Divine Dance

I don't know why it is that I so often assume that my relationship with God should be an uncomplicated one. Every other relationship in my life isn't, so why should I expect one with the divine to be so simple? I was struck by this thought the other day when I was pondering the complex relationship that exists between my dog and I. Even that relationship doesn't exude simplicity. My dog has entered into the teenage mentality, where listening and obedience aren't always hand in hand. The simple command, come boy, isn't always obeyed and he is challenging his boundaries constantly. My spousal relationship is by far the most challenging and complex one in my life and yet when it comes to God I have expected it to be neat and tidy, simple and predictable, but it never is.

So I've finally resigned myself to the fact that my relationship with God is going to be layered with complexity. By no means can I predict God's responses or guess how He will lead me, or know how He will orchestrate the broken pieces of my life into his grand design. I don't know when His presence will be felt or not, when I'll bask in His love or feel a time of heaven's silence. But I have come to relax in these complications and handle them much like my other relationships.

I ask questions when I have them. I wrestle with the unknowns. I express my anger, my frustrations, my doubts and fears. Then I leave them at His feet. I have learned to come to God in my full humanity and in honesty. I believe that is what He desires--me, being honest. Not me in my finery, trying to impress. Not me in my religious skin, but me, in my human frailty, full of questions and doubts, full of failure and complications.

It is in moments like these when I like to think of my relationship with God as a dance, though it may be an awkward one at times. For Sometimes I twirl away to dance on my own, or ignore his leading in preference to my own steps. At some point, I concede and return to the dance once more in an attempt to figure out how the human and the divine can move together seamlessly.

I recognize there will come a time when we will experience this union perfectly. And there will come a time when we will dance a waltz that is elegant and uniquely right. And for the first time we'll be exactly in sync with each other. But till then I continue the dance, sometimes in step, sometimes out, sometimes in close, sometimes needing to be retrieved. He leads, I follow, step on His toes, argue, move away, concede again and the awkward dance continues. But nevertheless I cling to the knowledge that someday we will do it precisely right and I will have the aha moment when I see exactly how it was meant to be.

Cardboard Fires

I love having a woodstove at this time of year. Though I hate to admit it, my husband is the best fire starter in the family. He is very Boy Scout about the whole process. He follows procedure and steps till he arrives at a hot roaring blaze. First, he lays his twigs and arranges them so the right amount of airflow occurs. Later, when he has achieved his coal bed he lays on the larger pieces layering them just so. Within minutes we have a hot sustainable fire.

I, on the other hand, am no Boy Scout. I am impatient and always looking for instant results with minimal effort and time. So instead of establishing the necessary coal bed I skip right to cardboard. Cardboard catches fire quickly and creates what appears to be a large roaring fire. Then when I have this wonderful illusion going, I throw on a large piece of wood and blow really hard on it as I keep my fingers crossed. Inevitably the cardboard burns up quickly and the wood below it doesn't catch fire and I'm left with a smoky mess.

I keep trying to make this system work by throwing more and more cardboard on hoping that a miracle will occur and my wood will catch fire without a well established coal bed. I keep hoping to trick the system and succeed in fire starting for impatient people. But it never works and as a result I fight with my woodstove for a couple of hours instead of taking the proper steps and having a decent fire in 20 minutes or so. They say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results. I guess that makes me an insane fire starter. You might think that I'd learn the lesson with so much evidence stacked against me. But I confess I still struggle with my cardboard fires trying to believe this is a process I can one day beat.

One day I thought I had just achieved my moment of glory. I had a particularly great cardboard fire going, where for a few brief moments the flames were high and looked successful. Of course it was all a ruse because it quickly petered out. For some reason the scene made me think of religion, specifically a checklist system of particular behaviors. What I realized was, this system can easily look like a roaring, sustainable fire. But it is a relationship with God that makes the sustainable fire, one you can warm yourself by. Faith by the checklist leaves one with a cardboard fire; you may see the bright flames, but they will quickly die out and leave you cold to the bone. Now, more than ever, I long for the genuine warmth of a sustainable fire rather than the tease of a quick, high flame. In the end, one can see it's clearly worth the extra effort.

Yes, Virginia, There is a Sock Monster.

In my estimation, doing laundry is like the ancient myth where a man has to roll a huge stone up a hill only to have it roll back down where he will endlessly repeat the process. Yet, laundry is not only like this myth, it is a mystery within a myth. The mystery being, where do all the socks go and why is it that only one goes missing? I've never had my pants walk off or had a top vanish, never had a sweater go AWOL. This mystery has followed me through 7 states and 10 cities.

I've examined my washer and found no sinkholes or portholes for escapees to vanish through. I've checked my dryer--none there either. I've checked the sliver of space between my washer and dryer to see if grabbing hands protrude--they don't. It leaves me with one logical conclusion--there is a sock monster.

I don't understand his pathos though. Why does he take one sock and not a pair? Why one big sock and one little, one white with pink trim, one solid black? What is he gaining out of all this? Is it only to torture me as I stare at a pile of mismatched, unpaired socks when my folding is done. A calling card to let me know he's been here?

I have a box now--a sock monster box. At the end of the folding process anyone without a partner goes into the sock monster box. They sit there until they find their partner, a perfect match; then they leave a happy couple once again. Sometimes they sit there for weeks or months. At some point tough choices are made. Some go on death row. Some are partnered with another mismatch, like an interracial marriage; Ms. pink trim is partnered with Mr. blue trim. They make a slightly odd but acceptable couple. If 6 months go by and no partner has been found and an extensive search party has done its job, then the left behind ones are lined up and marched to the trash bin. From there they go to wherever lonely, unpaired socks go. And the cycle continues with new unpaired ones showing up weekly to take their place. It is a process that goes on and on, round and round, just like the cycle on my washer and dryer.

The Cat is Always Right

Sometimes we adults get so preoccupied with people things that we are often unaware of the conversations that our pets are carrying on. One day when I was relaxed from a bit too much rum in my eggnog I found myself tuning in to an argument between our barn cat, Bodicea and our faithful dog, Strider. Apparently Strider had been boasting to Bodicea that he had written the Oster 2009 Christmas letter. Strider informed her that he was now officially top dog. Bodicea had not taken well to the chest thumping and was giving him a piece of her mind when I tuned in to the conversation.

"Top dog!" Bodicea choked out. "Well, that just shows how ill-informed you truly are. The words top and dog don't even go together. Dogs are so far down on the evolutionary chart that one could never call a canine top anything."

"You're jealous, yeah, that's it, isn't it? You weren't chosen to write the letter. That means that the Osters think that I'm the smarter of us." Strider responded.

"Smart?, you have the audacity to call yourself smart. Well, listen up little doggie. First of all, one of us is a working animal. Do you get that...working. Only smart animals work, and I'm the one who has a job on this property. You, on the other hand, are in the house all day being a lazy layabout."

"Alright, I'm confused, you have a job? From what I see you walk around all day eating gross stuff like mice, so what's all this ranting about a job?"

"How dumb can you be, Strider? Eating that "gross stuff" as you call it, is my job! I keep this place rodent free. That is a full time job. I am the pest control, but you sit in the house eating processed food from China and fart all day. You could say that I eat all natural or organic as they say in Vermont. I contribute significantly to this farm.

"Whoa-wait just a second, you have cat food that comes from a bag too. I see the kids put it out for you on the stoop each day."

"It supplements my hunting diet if you must know. If I don't get it I can still survive; you, on the other hand couldn't get by if they didn't feed. You-you're dependent as they say. Not to mention how greedy you are; I've seen you stealing my cat food from the stoop."

"Alright it's tempting you know. A growing pup needs a full and varied diet at this age."

"But...cat food??!"

"Food is food is food."

"Case in point, you just demonstrated that you're not so smart."

"Alrighty then, if you're so smart then let me hear your attempt at a Christmas letter."

"Fine, here it goes...
Dear family and friends,
What a wonderful year it has been here on Bywater Farm. My year of pest management has been highly successful. I have caught several baby rabbits which makes Mr. Oster very happy. When I am not hunting (the warrior queen they call me) I can be found soaking in the views while perched on my favorite fence or scratching my back on a lovely pine tree outside the barn. Though I am 9 years old, I still look terrific and haven't lost my agility..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, back this train up. Do you know anything about Christmas letters? You're not suppose to talk about yourself. You are suppose to tell about the family-as in Mom, Dad and the kids. No one cares what a mangy outdoor cat is doing!"

"I am the most important part of this family so naturally the reader would want to hear about me first. I'll get to the others later."

"What...in the last two sentences? You don't even live in the house!"

"I hope you're not implying that living in the house makes you family. I've seen your living quarters; they have you in a metal cage with a lock. You're not free-you're a glorified prisoner."

"It's a crate and it has a soft bed in there AND a toy."

"Strider, you're so naive, the toy is bait to get you inside and keep you there. It means they don't trust you bud. They're afraid you'll tear the house apart; so you're under lock and key, so to speak. While I, on the other hand, have freedom to roam the entire property."

"Well, you're afraid of sheep! I've seen you avoid the barn when they're there. I've seen you cower in fear. Some warrior you are, afraid of a few fluffy sheep. I'm the true warrior, I tell those sheep right where to go, and I make them do it!"

"I..I...well, I'm not afraid as you say. I'm simply annoyed by them. I don't have time for creatures who hit each other in the head repeatedly, and frankly I don't have time to keep explaining things to you that you should already know. I've got work to do!"

"Yeah, so do I. I've got a new toy I've got to check out."

"Oh brother!" Off Bodicea goes to roam the property with an air of superiority. She stops for a second and peers back at Strider. "The cat is always right, Strider. That's all you need to know for today...The cat is ALWAYS right!"

Living with the 1st and 3rd Person

It was an experience in New York state that first made me aware of the two persons living inside me. In writer's terms we call these the first and the third person. During this time I was working for the Mental Health Department in a residential program for adults with mental illness. The home in which I worked was an old, 3 story, Victorian house. The residents which occupied it were as eclectic and intricate as the details within the home's architecture itself. My time there as a counselor taught me the roller coaster nature of life with mental illness. I saw first hand how a person could be in their right mind one day, and then suddenly not be the next. This was the situation I found myself in with a woman I'll call Maude.

Maude was a self assured, gracious, black woman when in her right mind. She hovered at about 6ft in height and had a large boned build that could make her look formidable at times. She was well dressed and carried herself with great dignity. In good mental health she was an elegant, poised, intelligent woman.

I was fairly new to working in this home, but had been there long enough to have had a few pleasant conversations with Maude. We'd talked about cooking, knitting and other points of interest. Sometimes I shook my head in amazement as to why this seemingly sane person was living here. But a few weeks later, Maude was in a downward spiral which all came to a head on the night of a full moon.

I happened to be working that night and was the first one to discover that she was up in the middle of the night emptying the kitchen cabinets of their contents. She was making piles of dishes and things all over the free-standing island in the middle of the room. I walked into the kitchen and observed her behavior as well as her disheveled appearance. Eyes that were warm towards me a week ago were now shooting daggers in my direction. In this state, her size and strength was downright scary. The staff realized how easily she could overpower any of us. At this point no one interfered with her dish rearranging in the kitchen. We figured that as long as her behavior wasn't threatening we would not interfere. I was warned to be particularly careful around Maude in this state because she had a history of taking out her aggression on employees who were new, white and female. The staff knew how easily I could be targeted.

When morning came Maude's psychosis seemed to have worsened. It was 6:OO when I (first person) walked into the kitchen that morning to discover Maude standing by the island. Maude saw me enter the kitchen. She then slowly picked up the new butcher knife the home had just purchased. She stood and faced me and began stroking the long, silver blade in a slow, deliberate manner. The other me (third person) began noting the details in an objective fashion, as if she were somehow outside of me.

The first person me felt a nervous twinge in my gut over seeing psychosis in its full blown state. My instincts told me not to turn my back on her but to just inch out of the room slowly, never taking my eyes off her. Meanwhile, the third person, writer in me was standing as a silent observer noting that the intricate details of this would make a perfect horror film scene.

The lighting was perfect. The first rays of morning light were streaming in the kitchen window in a beam that played off the glittering steel of an unblemished new blade. The light back-lit her hair and nightgown in an eerie fashion. Her disheveled hair was pushed into clumps that stood stiffly in odd angles like opposing enemies. The light illuminated her thin, flimsy nightgown, outlining her large framed, unclothed body underneath. The sterile white of the kitchen was also noted, the chips, the cracks, the years of use the kitchen had suffered; that it was utilitarian and worn. It lacked a homey warmth. It was all these details together that made it a notable scene.

The first person me experienced a level of fear, was disconcerted over being present during this psychotic episode. The third person looked into Maude's psychotic eyes and saw that it was a perfect Stephen King movie moment. This third person observed keen details coming together in one moment in a perfect way and then froze those mental details into it's brain for further recollection.

And this is when I knew that there were two of me, the first person who lives, feels, and experiences things first hand. Then there is the second me, that cool, calm, observant third person who shadows my every move, always on the lookout for recordable moments where she jumps outside of me with her pen and steno pad noting the details, the descriptions and records them in her collected fashion. Later she pesters me to listen and tell what she's observed. Finally, the two persons come together, the one who observes and the one who feels. They fuse together in the production of their final gift--the written word.

Lambing Gone Wrong

Spring comes each year bringing all the expected nuances of the season with it. Yet, every year it continues to amaze me and pull me deeper into its enchantments. The returning grass, the budding flowers and the newest arrival of lambs leave me filled with wonder and awe. These were the things I was pondering as I walked to the hillside barn this particular morning. I was going down to check on Blackie, our best breeding ewe. My husband announced that she was lambing, so I quickly grabbed my boots and headed out. I was only there a few minutes when the joy of seeing new lambs born flowed out of me and panic took its place. This delivery was not going well. Blackie was showing serious signs of distress. It wasn't long before I was down on my knees in the muck assessing the situation more closely. The lamb was dead and Blackie was unable to expel it.

In a normal delivery you will see a nose and two front legs peeking out. In this case I had a head only. It appeared the lamb had strangled. I watched Blackie strain and push for several moments. No progress. Exhausted she plunked down on the barn floor alongside me.

Now I was having flashbacks of the lambing class I'd taken a couple years ago. I was remembering the wonderful breakfast buffet that had beckoned me upon arrival. I remembered listening to the sheep farmer talk about lambing as we watched a couple videos. Later we had shifted gears to what can potentially go wrong with lambing. It was in these situations where we watched the farmer get a bucket of water and a bottle of dish soap. In my complete naivety I could not imagine what he was going to do with these items. Then I had my question answered as I watched him soap up. With wet, slippery hands he then worked his hand and then his whole arm up inside the ewe. The farmer then proceeded to pull the lamb out. His prize for this heroic act-one slimy, mucous covered arm.

I just had one word for the whole thing-disgusting. No, utterly disgusting. I remembered my breakfast of champions rebelled on me and attempted to come back up. I remembered looking intently at the floor while the remaining footage played. I said one thing to myself-Never! I. Will. Never. Do. That! But mother nature was laughing at me this morning for she knew that as certain as the grass returns each spring that more often than not, human beings are forced to do the very things they swear they'll never do.

I returned to the house to get my water and soap and then I grabbed the cordless phone in a last ditch effort to get out of this. I called the farmer up the road-no answer. I looked for the farmer across the road-no luck. I called my sheep farmer friend-not home. I dialed my vet who assuredly told me that I should be able to do this myself. Some luck the phone brought me, I chucked it over on a hay bale. I then considered the advice I'd been given. The vet said to pull gently. My sheep farmer's son told be to pull hard, really hard. Great, I said to myself-pull lightly, pull like gangbusters. Now my head was thoroughly spinning. I grabbed the lamb's neck and pulled gently and then slightly harder, and then harder still and nothing. Blackie looked like she exasperated with the situation and with me the lousy farmhand.

Now I knew what I was going to have to do. So I plunked down on the barn floor and dunked my arm in the bucket. Then I lathered on the soap till everything was slick as snot. I took a deep breath, muttered a prayer of desperation and slipped my hand up under Blackie's folds till it was no longer visable. Finally I could feel the lamb's body and I was able to get the legs where I could pull. With a little persistence I was able to get the whole lamb out. Relief! Pure relief for Blackie and I both. In the end I sat my slimy, filthy self down on the ground as I watched Blackie stand and spill her blood on the earth below her. I spilled tears of relief and the ground beneath us received them both like collecting dues from the living.

The Postlude

I stood in the back of the barn amongst a hodgepodge of sheep supplies. It was there that the smell of iodine was the strongest. Its pungent odor dominated the scent of hay bales around me. Though my barn was in Vermont, the iodine smell transported me back in time to my Grandparent's decrepit old house in Maine. It was there that I also recalled that scent, particularly in my Grandmother's beauty shop off the kitchen.

I hesitate to refer to the beauty shop, anything bearing the word beauty wasn't fitting for my grandparent's house. It was the ugliest place I'd ever been forced to visit. My grandmother as well was no longer beautiful. A combination of evil and mental illness had worked their fingers through her hair over time leaving her with vacant, cold eyes. She looked like she could easily hide an axe behind her back. The only thing that scared me equally as much was my grandfather. He had two black, golf ball size lumps on either side of his neck. He reminded me of Frankenstein.

Their house, which was eventually knocked down, was tilted and drooped severely. Cobwebs hung in the place of art, cockroaches scampered across floorboards, walls were uneven with bulges, cracks, and secrets. My brothers and I peeked behind closet doors with sweaty palms expecting to find dead bodies. But Mom dragged us to this decaying dungeon in the name of Jesus. "We have to honor our parents," she stated. And so we trudged to their house of horrors, with casserole in tote, to sit in their musty parlor so my parents could chat with my grandmother while we kids prayed Grandmother wouldn't touch us or offer us food.

If by chance my grandmother did offer us food, my mother would save us all by pulling out her casserole. We would work our way into the kitchen where Grandmother served up the food on chipped plates and silverware that had a decade of dried food stuck to it. Above our heads hung a dusty chandelier where pretty small lights had been replaced with chunky 60 watt bulbs. The whole place smelled of dead cats and decay. It was a place that only Edgar Allen Poe or Stephen King could appreciate. But we routinely came for these biblical visits so Mom could fulfill her duty of honoring her parents.

But one particular visit sticks out from all the rest. We were there on a mission. Grandfather was dying and Mom had grandiose ideas about having special time with him. Moments where we'd say Hallmark greeting card words and gain closure. But Grandfather was not the kind of person you had sentiments with. He was already as closed as a coffin. But my mother entered his room like one enters a confessional. His small room was top of the steps, five feet straight ahead. The room had a sofa, bowl of nuts, and a TV where he watched wrestling. He never spoke to my grandmother other than a one syllable response, and he never spoke to his children while they were growing up. Once when my mother was a kid she had poked him with a pin to see if he could speak. His yelp answered her question. The old geezer did have vocal cords. There in the quiet of the room I knew my mother spoke to him about the biggies-heaven, hell, death, grace and God.

When she exited she passed the baton to me and told me to go have a meaningful moment with him before he died. "Mom," I said. "Uh, Grandpa has never spoken to me in my whole life. What exactly am I suppose to say to him? I don't even know the guy." I towered over my mother at this age but she looked up at me with power oozing out her eyes and said "Get in there-now!"

A few minutes later it's just me, my grandfather and the bowl of nuts in the room. His steel blue eyes barely acknowledged me. "Hey," I said. "Go downstairs and have tea with your mother," he said. We had stood for five whole seconds in the same room with invisible strands of genetic material connecting us but our eyes were unable to meet, our hearts were unable to connect. His comment freed me from the room releasing both of us into the comfortable silence. "See ya later," I said as I cheerfully left the room. I instantly realized my mistake. I may never see him again and this was not disturbing to me.

I returned to the kitchen where the cabinetry clung for dear life to walls that were trying to kick them off. The cabinets strained to hold the dishes inside. I passed by the old black stove that served as my grandmother's personal bank. This was her favorite hiding spot for money. As I sat down at the table my mother shot me the look of death. "He kicked me out," I whispered to her. On a positive note I told her that he has officially said 8 whole words to me now. "I can die in peace now," I muttered. "Don't be smart with me," she retorted.

My mother was the essence of appropriate behavior. She had wanted the grand postlude with my grandfather. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't drudge up a postlude where there had never been a prelude or a middle. In the end the silence between us was fitting. A lifetime of things unsaid, experiences unshared. Though sometimes I still think about that invisible genetic strand between us. Does the loner in me, or my odd blood type come from him? I'll never have the answers to my questions for I left the room to go have tea and he remained in the room with the nut bowl refusing to speak anymore than those 8 meager words.

If You Were to Ask Me

If you were to know me, you would know that I had to put down our family dog. He was two. If you were facing the same crossroad, you would ask me that dreaded question. How do you put down the family dog? This is what I'd tell you.

I wouldn't look you in the eye as I would talk. I'd look down or off to your side. I'd tell you to be mechanical about the whole thing, to stick your feelings in your back pocket. "Don't prolong it," I'd say. "Do it first thing in the morning. Waiting makes it worse."

When the time comes, you make yourself move. You put your shoes on, put the dogs leash on, put one foot in front of the other until you're both in the car. Wear sun glasses and ball cap. Drive the car. Distract yourself by watching birds along the drive. Notice pretty wreaths hung on front doors. Don't look back at the dog enjoying the car ride, barking at things outside his window. Fight back the tears. Blink, blink, blink hard. Swallow past the lump in your throat. Open your eyes wide to make space for the excess of liquid.

Pull into the vet's office. Walk inside. Leave shades on as you tell the receptionist you're here. She'll know everything. She'll look at you and mouth, "I'm sorry." Salt water will assault your eyes. Blink, blink, open eyes wide, swallow hard. Pull ball cap further down. Keep shades on. Stick face behind a magazine. Quickly, in a single motion, remove glasses and blot, blot, blot. Fabric from your sleeve should blot from eye to bottom of cheek. Continue to use magazine as needed. Read an article. Look at the chintzy art hanging in the waiting room.

Look at the floor when the vet assistant calls you to come back. She'll apologize too. Then she'll leave. You'll be in the room for several torturous minutes. Pet the dog. Walk around the room. Blink, blink, swallow.

The vet will come in. She'll say the same words as the others. She'll recognize the shades and pulled down ball cap, the sleeve that is now wet, and eyes that have been through an aerobic workout. She'll take the dog and give him a treat, she'll give you a pat on the arm. She'll offer brief words of assurance, telling you it is the right thing.

She'll lay the dog on the table and he'll look at you with eyes full of trust, not suspicious of a thing. You'll pet the dog and the blinking won't work this time. An onslaught of salty tears will spill out your eyes. Snot will run out your nose. Blot the snot first, the saltwater second. Your sleeve will be used up by now. The injection will be quick and he'll close his eyes and look like he's sleeping. It will be calm for a second. The worst is over, you'll tell yourself.

You'll hand the vet the burlap bag you brought. She'll stuff the dog's body inside and staple it shut. She'll have someone put it in the back of the car and shut the hatch. The feelings in your back pocket will try to escape, but fight the urge. It is easier to drive without saltwater vision.

Drive the car home. Don't listen to the eerie silence, the lack of noise from the back seat. Try to focus on all the bad things he did. The time he nearly killed Grandma's new poodle, or chased cars for two hours refusing to come when called. Blink, blink swallow. Turn up the radio, pick something distracting-rock music, perhaps. Don't pick country. Pull onto your road. Blot, swallow and blink a few times.

Bite your lip and get out of the car. Avoid eye contact with the kids. They'll ask a 100 questions about his last moments. Be cheery, give brief answers. Go inside and drink a latte, eat chocolate. Let your husband put the burlap bag in the hole he's dug. Expect more questions from the kids and looks that will reduce you to a hit man. They will not blink and swallow. They will sob loudly. The emotions in your back pocket will escape about now and chase you down. They will fly in your face and suffocate you. Go into your bathroom and take a moment or two. You'll now realize the worst is yet to come. Put on a new shirt with dry sleeves.

Go outside for the funeral. Let Dad do the talking. It will be hard to hear over the crying. He'll read Bible verses that says God works all things for our good. Don't expect the kids to believe it, not today at least. Put your hands in your pockets and stretch your eyes as dirt is thrown over top of the burlap bag. Ignore the knot in your stomach, the tightness in your throat, the migraine behind your eyes. You won't be hungry today, tomorrow or the next day. But you will have done what needed to be done, even though you'll question yourself 1000 times, and the what ifs will be your new companion for weeks. You'll see your dog everywhere. Hear him in the absence. The silence will be deafening, and you will blink and swallow a thousand times over the days ahead. But congratulate yourself on doing the unthinkable. You will now be a member of a unique group, those of us who know that it is possible to lovingly stroke a dog with the left hand while holding a gun in the right.

Jury-Rigging in the Barn

What makes someone a true Vermonter? I think about this sometimes. I wonder about the Vermont dairy farmers. These hard workers are as much a part of the Vermont landscape as the barns and silos. Do they feel like true Vermonters when they're marking their territory with the manure spreader?

If it isn't your job that makes you a Vermonter, is it your wardrobe that does? Is a closet of Carhartt work clothes, serious mud boots, or handmade hemp clothing a tip-off that you're true-blue to the state? Are wild patterned wool socks, peeking out from Birkenstock sandals, a Vermont calling-card? Or the felted wool hat you purchased from the sheep farmer?

Perhaps it's the contents in your freezer that reveals your true status? Freezers filled with meat, wrapped in white paper, without a grocery store name. Packages that indicate one knew where this animal lived and grazed. A pantry lined with canned fruits and vegetables, all plucked from your garden. So is this the secret sign, being conscientious about where your food comes from?

Some folks say that if your grandparents were born here, then you can call yourself a true local. Others say that if you have relatives up in the Northeast Kingdom, who bury their money in the back yard, never trusting the bank, then you have serious roots in the state. Still others will look strictly to your accent as the true mark of a Vermonter.

While there are many theories as to who is a true Vermonter, I suspect I could qualify on a few levels. My grandparents were born and raised in this state. I still have relatives up yonder, a few that I suspect have the hidden money thing going on. I eat locally, including raising and slaughtering my own sheep. I have mud boots and help muck out the barn. Yet, in all this I have never actually felt like a true Vermonter. No, for that to occur something out of the ordinary would have to happen, and it did.

I pulled on my farm boots this particular morning and headed to the barn for a quick fill of the feeder. I walked in and discovered some of the sheep wandering freely in the inaccessible part of the barn. Normally they are confined to their area with two barriers: a metal cattle gate and a long hay feeder. The hay and feed supplies are stored in the back for obvious reasons. My job was to figure out how the lambs and smaller ewes had gotten back there.

Soon I saw it. A gaping hole in the metal fence. The bar which vertically supports the fence was dangling in pieces. The horizontal support bars completely bashed in, courtesy of an angry alpha ram. In the middle of these poles were 2 by 3 grid fencing which now had a sheep size hole through it. Hay bales strewn apart were now covered with sheep poop. The escapees stood munching away, enjoying the all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.

I looked at my fence; it was in sorry shape. I looked at my checkbook; it was in sorry shape. There was only one option: jury-rig it. I scrounged up some spare fencing along with some blood-red twine from unbound hay bales. I began to patch the hole. I tied and knotted the spare fence pieces in various places. The twine hung down like ribbons on a package. The grid fencing was bent in odd contortions. I yanked, pulled and continued to tie the metal pieces together to construct a barrier. It looked awful, like a twisted metal patchwork quilt with twist-ties. But the task was done; the hole was fixed. I had solved the problem like a true Vermonter, with scrap metal and no money.

I expect my pathetic looking fence will stand there until my angriest ram decides to completely beat it into a pile of rubble. Then I'll have no choice but to buy a new one. But as for this old one, I'll always remember it as the bent, battered gate that turned a girl in Vermont into a true Vermonter.

The Wind-Blown Hydrangea

I was entranced as I watched a dried hydrangea blow along the church pathway this blustery, winter morning. Light and billowy, it flitted down the path like a promise of spring, waiting impatiently to come. It bounced along, skidded on top of ice and frozen ground. It was like a cataclysmic clashing: of winter and spring, of hard and soft, of frozen ground and budding earth.

The wind-blown hydrangea hit the heavy, dark, church door, and bounced off; the wind whisking it off in another direction. I was sad for a moment as I thought of that hydrangea as God's Spirit that blows among us. Does it find our church doors shut, our teachings vacuous, our services unwelcoming? The church that morning was stark, and cold.

My mind's eye returned to the image of the hydrangea hitting the church door and blowing away. It is an accurate picture. We have shut the door on God in this state, and not politely either. Not like the old lady who declines the salesman at her door, bidding him another time perhaps. No, we have slammed the door, with clinched fists raised toward heaven. We've told God to go away and not to call.

I ponder this when a peace descends on me, reminding me that the Spirit does not need buildings of mortar and stone to call home; it needs the heart's soft flesh. We cannot stop the blowing of His Spirit, for when our churches close their doors; the birds will sing its liturgy. The novelist will write of redemption. The songwriter will fill a smoke-filled room with truth, and the Spirit, like a wind blown hydrangea, will still blow in and among all of them, bouncing off mortar yet piercing through flesh.

Stella

April blew in like a gust of north wind. The ground frozen solid, the air biting cold. But temperature and mother nature could not control when mother ewes would deliver. This early April brought us a cluster of new lambs. They snuggled with their moms for body heat unaware that another month would have been a more welcoming time to be born. One particular night was especially bitter. Strong winds blew through the vented barn gate and onto the new born lambs. They all fared well, except for one black lamb named Stella, who contracted pneumonia. Stella quickly lost strength, soon she was unable to stand or nurse.

But while life is happening in the barn, it is also happening in the house; sometimes the two being completely unaware of the other. While Stella was struggling to breathe, the kids were finishing lunch and stuffing books in their backpacks for afternoon tutoring. Soon we drove off unaware of how sad the remainder of the day would be.

We had barely gotten home when the phone rang. It was bad news. My neighbor and friend had passed away from her battle with cancer. She was a single mom of 7 kids. This was devastating news. I stood dumbfounded, trying to process the information. Meanwhile, my oldest was in hysterics outside by the chicken coop. One of the chickens was dead. Jackie was very upset and puzzled as to why I didn't seem to care. I stood there, weighing the death of a neighbor and our chicken. The chicken no longer mattered.

We fished the chicken out of the coop, and tossed it off in the woods. Jackie was then sent to the barn to fill up the hay-feeder. Soon she was running back towards the house in tears. "Come quick," she tells me. I followed her to the barn where we found Stella at death's door. Jackie picked her up, tears falling down her face. "You just can't let her die, you just can't!" she said. She stroked Stella's wool, holding onto her for dear life. "It's a day of death," she said. "First the chicken, then our neighbor, and now this lamb is dying. I can't take another death today, you have to save her!"

I prefer to let mother nature take her course, but it was heartbreaking to watch my oldest child learn the effects of living in a fallen world. She was witnessing the effects of the curse: death, suffering, disease, hardship, unfairness, and a whole lot more. She was learning that life is messy, it isn't just love, friends, mac and cheese, and Christmas gifts. She was realizing there is a whole other world outside the four walls of our house. This cold April wind blew its chilly breath on a defenseless newborn lamb and blew a new knowledge into a little girls heart.

Stella came into our house that night. She slept in a laundry basket in the front hall. We fed her with a bottle of milk-replacer. The next day I gave her a shot of vitamin E and an antibiotic. Eventually she was moved to the upstairs bathtub. We covered the tub floor with hay for her to lie on, as we continued our struggle to feed her. Stella did not want to drink from the bottle. We persistently plugged along and soon Stella was standing in the tub.

We followed the vet's instructions and in two weeks time we were able to move her back into the barn, where we hoped she'd be taken back by her mother. She wasn't. Her mother rejected her and I no longer wanted her in my house. My bathroom now smelled like the barn, and the smell was beginning to slowly slip out the bathroom and invade the rest of the house. The kids were now thoroughly grossed out by the manure covered hay and sheep urine in the tub, their expressions told me that I would be the one cleaning it, so I did. I cleaned it once with bleach, twice with bleach, and it still smelled like the barn. It was as if the pores in the woodwork had opened themselves up to drink in this new essence and then seal it in. I opened the windows to usher the odor out, but it stayed. Stella was in the barn, but her essence stayed in the house for weeks.

The fact that Stella's mother would not take her back left us with quite a chore. Every couple of hours we had to go to the barn, catch Stella's mother and restrain her while Stella latched on. The mother ewe grunted, butted, kicked, fighting this like it was a great violation against her, but we kept hoping she would re-accept Stella of her own free will. She wasn't interested. It wasn't long before this find mom, catch mom, restrain mom, let Stella drink (tank-up) routine became quite laborious for all of us. How happy we were when she was old enough to drink water and we could end this process.

This little lamb, named in Latin for a starry night was fully alive. She grew bigger and stronger. We had saved her but as the months wore on we would be sorry we had interfered with the laws of nature. Stella would turn out to be anything like the peaceful pleasure of a starry night. She would be an exasperating headache and a tough lesson for all of us.