All posts tagged: spring

Grow In Grace: Understanding the Parable of the New Wineskin

Jesus plopped a little duo of parabolic gems about patches and wineskins as response. This is one of those passages in the gospel of Matthew that have most of us scratching our heads and wondering, “What exactly did Jesus mean by that?”
I think, and this is pure supposition, I admit, that when Jesus said these words, he may have given a little wink to Matthew, his host and new disciple. Because Matthew understood exactly what Jesus meant by this:

“No one sews a patch of unshrunk cloth on an old garment, for the patch will pull away from the garment, making the tear worse. Neither do people pour new wine into old wineskins. If they do, the skins will burst; the wine will run out and the wine wineskins will be ruined. No, they pour new wine into new wineskins, and both are preserved.” (Matthew 9:16-17)


It’s Not Always Pretty, But It Is Always Good {My Story in Video}

I watched spring this morning. The robins hopped on greening grass. Goldfinch looked in the window as if to ask me, “Are you ever going to fill that feeder with thistle?” Cold blue skies, swept with light clouds promised the coming warm days. I was struck again, anew, by the beautiful reality that I can go fill the feeder, dig in the soil of my own yard, walk to the tune of birdsong. A year ago, I was recovering from a second surgery where the surgeons removed the titanium rod from my fibula and reamed a larger one through that leg-bone to aggravate my body to produce enough new bone cells to fill in the gaps between the breaks that had refused to heal. I was struck again by the miracle of the incarnation of Jesus, the decision of a limitless God to take on the form and limitations of humanity, to trade infinite power for fragility. This flesh and bone grace of the incarnation of Jesus Christ makes all other miracles, including the resurrection …

Death and a Promise {My March Garden and Predestination}

It is early March and the garden is a graveyard. Stripped leafless, raspberry canes stand as skeleton sentinels over the raised beds that appear in the gray March morning as bleached-cedar crypts. It is a deserted graveyard of  last summer’s folly and autumn’s frosted nights. Leaves lay clung to one another in a dappled, moulded pile on wet earth; and stems, once green founts of nourishment, poke the air in haphazard directions. It all looks an architectural experiment gone awry, a verdant dystopia of what once was and what I’m left with is slime and detritus and memories. But I breathe in chilled air laced with the scents of earthy decomposition and I breathe out again and say, It is all death and a promise. That is the gardener’s life: to accept the seasons and the life and loss that they bring with a trowel in hand and hope in heart. That is the life I choose. But before that, it was the life that chose me. Before I gardened, before I carried babies in …

When God Sounds A Lot Like You {demystifying what it means to ‘hear from god’}

“God intended, out of the goodness of his heart, to be lavish in his revelation.” {from Isaiah 42, the Message) First warm day finds me in the garden. Snow clings yet in patches where the sun cannot reach. I don’t venture far beyond the patio, this season of my limitation (although I rarely acquiesce to the idea of having a disability), and this still-healing leg keep me near a chair or a table to lean on. There’s enough work to attend to right outside the back door. Winter’s left behind her customary mess: molded leaves, sandy dirt, broken twigs and pine needles huddle in cracks and corners. A stray child’s shoe, a nerf bullet, a juice box… all usual culprits in the disarray that is the garden in March. The rake, wood handle smooth in my palm, draws it’s tines through the piles, across the surface of the cement. It scuttles and scrapes and picks at the stubborn filth of winter’s stay.

Living Like Lew #4 {A Garden of Trust}

Linking up with   We’d lived in that house longer than six months. It was beginning to feel like home. The past couple of years we’d lived like nomads, moving from Phoenix to Taos, New Mexico to rural Washington and now, to this house in eastern Washington up a dirt road hill from Silver Lake. I turned ten just about the time we moved in, smack in the middle of summer. I shyly met the neighbor boy, then another, then the girl one street over who would be my best friend and secret sharer during those awkward years called adolescence. Without school to keep us busy, we explored the woods beyond the cow pasture behind my house; we caught frogs in the marshy edges of the lake; we swam like like trout until we were pruned. Summer blended into fall and huge flocks of ducks and Canadian geese gathered on the lake to plan their southward routes. School began and time ticked along with the daily routine. Before long we’d passed months in the new …