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To Have and To Hold

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I’m breathing a sigh of relief. Fourteen months into this pandemic and Chris and I are vaccinated. I saw my Mom for Mother’s Day. The CDC is saying vaccinated people don’t have to wear masks. Venues and organizations are outlining plans to ‘return to normal!’ We survived a pandemic! Chris and I have also survived thirty-nine years of marriage as of this weekend. It doesn’t really sound very good to say the word ‘survive’ when speaking of your marriage, but it is the truth. When we said our vows, we had no idea what our future would hold—for better, for worse. The year of the pandemic was not the worst year of our marriage—in fact, there were lots of ‘betters’ sprinkled in among the oddities, losses, and unknowns of the ‘unprecedented’ pandemic. But we have navigated other unprecedented events in our years together that have fallen into the ‘worse’ category—things we couldn’t plan for, things that broke our hearts, things we could never imagine would happen—and it is those things that we have survived.

As a naïve young bride, I thought marriage would be simple—as simple as the name Spring Beauty for these delicate ephemeral flowers. To love and to cherish sounded simple to me, for I fiercely loved this man, and I was pretty good at cherishing things.

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What I didn’t know how to handle was the first time I realized that in this moment I hated him, which, as we learn, says much more about me than him. By that time, we had had over twenty-seven years together, so like the Leatherwood shrub, I learned to be more flexible, more forgiving, of him and of myself.

We discovered over time what side of the creek we were on—the Democrat married a Republican, the sports-lover married a sports-dare-I-say-hater, the horse-loving country girl hitched up with a city boy. But we also waded across the clear, cold creek to see and feel what it was like on the other side—he learned to ride horses, and I eventually learned to like football!

Sometimes things were a little murky. We kind of knew what was going on, but there were things we either didn’t know or we just didn’t have the mature skills to navigate with finesse. We bumbled through it. First-child parenting comes to mind. Okay, make that all-child parenting. All house buying and selling. All job changes. How many murky moments in thirty-nine years?!

We learned about perspectives. What’s real? What’s just a shadow? Which one is taking up the most space? The shadow of fear took up a ton of space in my life and darkened far too much of our relationship and my ‘being’ in the world. In sickness and in health. In shadow and in light.

There were mysteries unveiled of bodies and minds, of past and present, of life at large. God’s holy ordinance allows for mysteries, embraces them, and lifts them up for our participation and our wonder.

We learned to be rocks for one another. It always seemed like Chris was my rock, as I talked so much, cried so often, hurt so deeply, but over the years I realized how steady I was for him—in making a warm home, in explaining the science of things and the emotional aspects of relationships, and in always having topics to converse about. To have and to hold.

There have been so, so many bright spots in our life together, especially our three children. It is an honor to bring other human beings into the mysteries of life and relationships.

And yet, beauty and goodness can be caught in a tangle of rubble, unreachable and unpreachable. There are hard, messy things in life that are beyond our control. For richer, for poorer.

There are trees, and there are forests. There are details, and there are ‘big pictures.’ There is the here and now, and there is the future. We have learned who is the tree person—the detail person, and who is the forest person—the ‘big picture’ person. And we have learned the exceptions to the rule.

How long can one hide, and what is the reason for hiding? There’s almost always a reason, a very good reason. For a very long time the very good reason is often hidden from the person who is hiding. This riddle is the journey of our lives.

As young marrieds, we knew little of death. Then a puppy died, and another, and then a young dog, an old dog, many cats, my beloved horse. We chopped off heads of chickens to put in our freezer, butchered a pig we named and cared for. An infant nephew died, my dear friend, an uncle, an aunt, my Grandma, Chris’ parents, my Dad, Chris’ brother….We know about death now. It is a lesson that brings many lessons. Till death do us part.

There is spirit in marriage, there is science, and there is art. I think you need all three to make it thirty-nine years, to survive, to thrive, to become the person you are meant to be. Thereto I pledge thee my faith.

So, we have made it this far together. The fir-cone strewn path stretches on before us. We see the trees and the forest. We know precious new life and have walked with death. We respect the simplicities and complexities of life. We have experienced love and hate, fear and peace, sorrow and joy. We appreciate beauty and mystery. We go on. From this day forward.

The Tallest Shining Example

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The Tale of Three Trees—A Folktale

Once upon a time, three little trees stood in a forest high on a mountain, dreaming of what they would be when they were grown. The first little tree looked up at the stars twinkling like diamonds in the night sky. “I want to hold treasure,” it said. “I want to be filled with gold and decorated with jewels. I will be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!” The second little tree looked down the mountainside at the ocean far below. “I want to be a strong sailing ship,” it said. “I want to travel mighty waters and carry powerful kings. I will be the strongest ship in the world!” The third little tree said, “I don’t want to leave this mountaintop at all. I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me their eyes will raise up to heaven, and they will think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world!”

Years passed, and the trees grew. And then one day, three woodcutters climbed the mountain. One woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, “This tree is beautiful! It is perfect for me.” With a dozen swoops of his axe, the first tree fell. “Now I shall be made into a beautiful treasure chest,” thought the first tree. “I shall hold marvelous treasures!” Another woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, “This tree is strong! It is perfect for me.” With a dozen swoops of his axe, the second tree fell. “Now I shall sail mighty waters,” thought the second tree. “I shall be made into a strong ship fit for powerful kings!” The third tree felt its heart sink as the last woodcutter approached. It stood straight and tall and pointed bravely towards heaven. But the last woodcutter never even looked up. “Any kind of tree will do for me,” he muttered. With a dozen swoops of his axe, the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter took it to a carpenter’s shop. But the carpenter was not thinking about treasure chests. Instead, he cut and carved the tree into a simple feedbox. The once-beautiful tree was not filled with gold or decorated with jewels. It was covered with dust, and filled with hay for hungry farm animals. The second tree rejoiced when the wookcutter took it to a shipyard. But the shipbuilder was not thinking about mighty sailing ships. Instead, he hammered and sawed the tree into a simple fishing boat. The once-strong tree was too weak to sail the ocean. It was taken to a little lake, where every day it carried loads of dead, smelly fish. The third tree was confused when the woodcutter took it to a lumberyard, where it was cut into strong beams and then left alone. “What happened?” the once-tall tree wondered. “All I ever wanted to do was stay on the mountaintop, grow tall, and make people think of God.”

Years passed, and the three trees nearly forgot their dreams. But then one still and silent night, golden starlight poured over the first tree, as a young woman placed a newborn baby into the feedbox. “I wish I could make a cradle for him,” her husband whispered. The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the clean and shining wood. “This manger is beautiful,” she said. And suddenly the first tree knew it was holding the greatest treasure in the world. And then one humid and cloudy day, a tired traveller and his friends crowded into the small fishing boat. The traveler fell asleep as the second tree sailed quietly out into the lake. But a thundering storm arose, and the second tree shuddered, knowing that it did not have the strength to carry so many passengers safely through the fierce wind and rain. The tired traveler awoke. He stood up, stretched out his hand, and said with a strong voice, “Peace, be still.” The storm stopped as quickly as it had began. And suddenly the second tree knew it was carrying the King of heaven and earth.

And then one terrible Friday morning, the third tree was startled as its beams were yanked from the old lumberyard. It flinched as it was was carried through an angry, jeering, spitting crowd. It shuddered when soldiers nailed a man’s hands and feet to her. It groaned as the man cried out in agony and died. It felt ugly and harsh and cruel. But at dawn the next Sunday, on the first Easter morning, the earth trembled with joy beneath the third tree, and it knew that God’s love had changed everything. It had made the first little tree a beautiful treasure chest. It had made the second little tree a strong sailing ship. And every time people looked upon the third little tree, they would think of God. That was even better than being the tallest tree in the world.

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I wasn’t thinking about Easter when Chris and I started our hike two weeks ago at Fritz Loven Park. The dark, bubbling Stoney Brook was picturesque within the snowy banks. The Pine trees rose high into the clear, blue sky. It was a beautiful brisk day, more like Winter than the newly-announced Spring. I was zooming in on some ice over the creek that sparkled like a thousand diamonds in the sunshine (no justice for sparkles in this photo).

A few steps beyond the ice, I pointed and exclaimed, “Look at that cross!”

The sticks and broken ice/snow chunks had fallen–mashed–piled–converged–lined up so that a wooden cross was outlined against the white snow in the dark water. To the left of the cross was an ice cave, like a tomb, I thought. Interesting.

There were fallen logs all over the park, but there was one by the creek with its bark stripped off, ragged, and hanging in shreds—like the flesh ripped off someone’s back in a whipping, I shuddered.

The Passion continued to instill itself in our hike. A towering, lone Pine tree, pointing bravely towards heaven, was crossed by a still-live Birch tree. I have no idea how they got into this position, but the striking thing to me was the s-c-r-a-p-i-n-g of one live tree against the other—as the Birch fell or as the wind still blew it to and fro. Wounded.

As we circled the park towards Upper Gull Lake, three large trees growing in a cluster reminded me of the picture book I read to the kids when they were little—The Tale of Three Trees. Surrounding the three trees were a host of golden-leaved Ironwood trees—like a shimmering aura in the sunlight.

Steps away from the three trees lay a pine knot cross, not uncovered by the melted snow, by somehow placed on top of it. Deer tracks and wood debris were around the cross but still didn’t tell the whole story. Pine knot crosses form when a pine branch rots away—the knots are where branches formed on a larger branch or trunk, where the wood is more dense and hard, and thus last to rot. When I worked at a church camp in the Black Hills, we would find them to give to special people in our lives. I haven’t seen such a perfect one in forty-three years….

Towards the end of the trail, I spotted an old, gray, weathered stump that had been there for a while. Most of the bark had peeled off, leaving the smooth gray wood. A chunk of the gray wood had fallen away revealing a puzzlework of rusty-brown-golden-amber art. Even after death, this tree was showcasing Nature’s beauty.

I confess I am in heaven on earth every time I’m out in Nature. There is so much to see, to wonder, to ponder, and to appreciate, and at the same time, it calms my nervous system, grounds my anxieties, and tunes me towards the power that is greater than all of us. But our Lenten hike two weeks ago lassoed my attention towards the cross and what that means for each of us. The folktale of The Three Trees has lessons, too. These dreams we have to be the most beautiful holder of treasure, the strongest ship in the ocean, and the tallest, shining example of God—and how years pass, and we wonder what happened. Yet, as the years pass, we grow—we learn and change, struggle and transform, and often end up becoming something entirely different in exactly the right way. The Power is greater than all of us: it’s the diamonds in ice, the healing for wounds, the angels of light, the art after death. Behold the treasures of our hearts and lives, the strength of our resolve as we navigate our trails, and the tallest, most shining example of God-in-us that we can be. Behold!

Lovable Hermits

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Have you ever asked yourself to see a situation from a wider perspective? Easy question to ask, but difficult, so very difficult, to actually do. I’m reading The Book of Joy—Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu with Douglas Abrams. Abrams writes, “The Dalai Lama used the terms wider perspective and larger perspective. They involve stepping back, within our own mind, to look at the bigger picture and to move beyond our limited self-awareness and our limited self-interest. Every situation we confront in life comes from the convergence of many contributing factors….When we confront a challenge, we often react to the situation with fear and anger. The stress can make it hard for us to step back and see other perspectives and other solutions….We (can) see that in the most seemingly limiting circumstance we have choice and freedom, even if that freedom is ultimately the attitude we will take.” Fear and stress, anger and limiting circumstances sound very familiar to all of us, all of a sudden, in this changing world.

I’ve always appreciated a ‘big picture’ approach, but only on the basis of a multitude of information from many small observations and facts (science). The big picture requires us to look beyond what we see (and believe). Our hike at Fritz Loven Park last weekend was an unfolding of that process. The trail circled the bottom of a tree-covered, almost snow-bare hill. Warm, crunchy leaves and bright sunshine belied the deep snow and cold temps of the hours ahead.

As we walked along the flatlands by the fast-flowing Stoney Brook, I noticed that most of the trees were young compared to a small number of very large ones. I wondered if this area had flooded. One distinct and eye-catching tree was a large Cottonwood, who would thrive having wet feet, so to speak.

But as we walked up toward a ridge, I then wondered if there had been a fire at one time. Often the tallest, strongest trees can survive a fire that consumes the smaller ones.

It wasn’t until the trail crossed a wide swath of nothingness (and stumps) that I realized the area had been logged. Logging was the predominant industry in northern Minnesota starting in the late 1800’s. Virgin timber was cut in this area around Gull Lake, and a railroad was built in order to transport logs. And in the summer of 1894, Fred Oscar Loven was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Though tourism is now a major industry in the Northwoods region, logging continues. Large wooded areas will reside beside a clean-cut swath or a shaggy area of young saplings or brush that had previously been logged.

Even through the deep snow, we could see evidence of the destruction of a forest and the life and vibrancy that remained. Dried ferns and wild flowers were visible beacons of the coming Spring when Nature effortlessly performs her miracles of new life.

Our trail through the park had been groomed numerous times throughout the winter for cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. It was packed down and relatively easy to walk on—not too rough and not too icy. The snow pack beyond the trail was also hard enough to walk on, and I asked Chris to use his walking stick to measure the depth of the snow.

It will be a little while until all of it melts…

The trail of Fritz (Fred) Loven’s life is sparse on details (that I could find), but one mention came up from the Pro Football Reference. He played guard one season with the Minneapolis Red Jackets in 1929 at the age of 35. Pro football before the NFL. We do know that Fritz’s trail three years later led him to 80 acres of land west of Nisswa that was his home for 43 years. He lived in a cabin with no electricity, running water, gas, or telephone. The ‘lovable hermit’ (may we all be lovable hermits during this time) didn’t have a car but traveled by foot, snowshoes, or boat.

His greatest contribution, in my opinion, besides his wish for his land to become a park, was that he normally planted 400 trees each year! Most people underestimate or take for granted the true value of a tree. Fritz Loven was a bower billionaire—he lived and worked under the shade of the existing trees and eventually, of the ones he planted—and we are the beneficiaries of his generosity and vision.

Like most ‘big pictures’ of any given situation, the larger perspective of Fritz Loven and his park is complicated. Signage on our hike told us that we were crossing private property at some points, though we didn’t know exactly where that was. Was the logging on the park land or on private property? Did the city need funding from the logging in order to maintain the park? It was sad to see incredible giant Pines and Oaks beside the clear-cut areas. How many trees that Fritz planted were cut down for timber? Who is replanting? Along with the logging, there was also damage from storms, these extreme weather events that are becoming common-place due to climate change. ‘Every situation we confront in life comes from the convergence of many contributing factors.‘ What are the facts? What are the observations? How do we look beyond what we see at any given moment and more importantly, beyond what we believe?

Fritz Loven was the guardian of the beautiful little trout stream, the keeper of the forest, and protector of the trees. He had faith that the trees would grow, the fish would reproduce, and that his vision and work would be a place for people to enjoy decades and decades after he was gone. With the fear and stress of our present coronavirus situation, how do we step back from our limited self-awareness and our limiting self-interest to see the larger perspective? Within our own minds, how do we tamp down the fear in order to see the factors that converged to get us into this situation and the solutions to get us out? We are the guardians of our own bodies and minds, and collectively, we are the guardians of our earth. Faith is how we look beyond what we see. Openness is how we look beyond what we believe. Love is how we show up for ourselves, one another, and for our sustaining Mother Earth. May we be lovable hermits at this time and have all three.

Hunkering Down

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I love when a cool, old word all of a sudden becomes apropos (another cool word meaning ‘suitable in a particular situation or at a particular time.’) I’ve been saying it, my friends have been saying it, and the newscasters and experts have been saying it—hunker down. ‘Hunker’ is a good word to say out-loud (almost always said with the word ‘down’); it has grit and meaning and motion. The word/phrase emerged in the 18th century in the Scots language referring to ‘squatting down on the balls of one’s feet, keeping low to the ground, but still ready to move if necessary.’ Over the centuries and in this situation and time we find ourselves in, it also means ‘to be prepared to stay in a particular place or situation for as long as necessary, usually in order to achieve something or for protection.’ Yep—here we are hunkering down.

At this particular time, hunkering down for Chris and I includes what has always been a part of our lives—going out in Nature, and this weekend was no exception. We drove north again, even a little farther than we did last weekend. We contemplated the different parks in the Brainerd region and saw one called Fritz Loven Park, west of Nisswa. It was the name—great to say and intriguing as to why it was so named—that was the deciding factor for our Saturday destination. The park is named after Fritz Loven who settled on the 80 acres of land in 1932. He was known as ‘the lovable hermit’ of Upper Gull Lake. Social distancing was his norm for decades. I will tell you more about him in my next post; for now, just know it was his wish that after his death, his land would go to the town of Lake Shore. It will be forever protected by the Minnesota Land Trust.

The first surprise and delight when we emerged from our vehicle was the sound of running water—literally a babbling brook aptly named Stoney Brook. The dark water coursed between the banks still deep in snow.

As we hiked, another striking observance was the number of huge fallen trees in the park—some broken off, others uprooted. A summer storm in 2015 and another in May of 2016 that carried with them devastating extreme winds, had toppled trees and power lines. The evidence starkly remains.

In the midst of the past destruction and the as-of-yet-ongoing Winter (despite the calendar’s announcement of the arrival of Spring), we saw great beauty. Mother Nature creates amazing art at any particular place and time of year—and at this time and place, it was intricate ice art. The brook was lined with it, and I hunkered down (first definition) at the edge of the water with camera in hand.

We are living in the vast gray area where things don’t fit into neat ‘us and them’ categories and when trying to incite that division falls flatly with a resounding thud to our humanity and decency. The picture is bigger now. We are all team players, like we should have been all along. It’s always been about life and death—if not physically, then spiritually, emotionally, and socially. We are losing people—the fallen—for reasons we will never understand and for reasons we should have been more prepared for. And in the midst of the fear, confusion, collapse, sickness, and death is an upsurgence of art and creativity and caring. Music, visual arts, poetry, stories, and heroism are being brought to the fore, and it’s making a difference in our isolation. The loss of lives and livelihood is tragic, but it does not have to be without meaning. With such a trauma to our world, there is no going back to the way it used to be—we have an opportunity to go forward to a new way of being with the very things that are most important to us now in this time of quarantine. Hunker down in love, self care, creativity, renewal, and charity for others—we’re all in this together with grit and meaning and motion.