Christmas Places

The house I grew up in seemed so large to me as a little kid, it now appears rather small as it sits out on a farm. I see it occasionally when I drive by just for nostalgia purposes. Nearly everyone feels that way about some aspect of their childhood that appeared so large in life that takes on a comical remembrance as its true size is now apparent. Another chuckle arises when I think that I could never find my Christmas presents in that small farmhouse. I know they had to hidden somewhere but I could never find them. A few presents were wrapped and placed under the tree like socks and underwear and such. But the really cool ones I wanted were somewhere else. It wasn't for lack of looking, I just could never find my Christmas presents in that house. I could not imagine there being any place not accessible to my stubborn persistence and curiosity.
Evidently there were.

In the fifty or more Christmases since those adventures into the attic, under beds, in dark closets and forbidden drawers, I have learned that the best things in life are like that--they are  not possessed by simply great effort and probing. They are discovered as gifts in places both unexpected and in full view. In fact, in the Incarnation of Christ, His gifts are found in places we would never venture to look. Yet, often the greatest surprise is there waiting. What sort of places could hold a treasure from the Lord Himself?
Believe it or not, darkened places. Isaiah 9 even predicted it: "The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned." Christmas time is a dark time for many people. Family brokenness, financial fears, stress from trying to please too many and not enough time or money or faith leaves a dark mark on some people's Christmas. And the bible tells us that because of sin, we all walk in darkness. Yet into the darkness Christ came. He brings to our sin darkened, stress filled, question filled lives His light. It is the light of hope. It is found even in darkened places, there it shines bright for all who will open the eyes of their hearts and see.

Another unexpected place to find the gifts Jesus brings are the broken places in our lives. Psalm 147 and Isaiah 61 tell us that the coming Messiah will bind up the brokenhearted and restore and rebuild the broken places. A person can't live too long in life without experiencing some kind of brokenness. It may be an arm or foot or it may be first loves first broken heart. It may be career hopes, family dreams, health or finances. And even if by some small chance none of these are experienced, no one escapes spiritual brokenness. Our own version of holiness just doesn't amount to much, yet here and in other broken places, Jesus enters. Binding, soothing, healing, leading us out or standing with us even in our brokenness is the sovereign Lord. Restoration Hardware, it turns out is not a store for high-end new vintage house parts. Restoration Hardware are the tools of  manger, cross, and a rolled away rock that Jesus uses to promise healing in our broken places.

Jesus shows up in our forgotten places, too.  In living life we forget how to worship God, discover His forgiveness, serve Him sacrificially, enjoy His presence, relax in His grace, luxuriate in His love. In forgetting these essentials we forget how to live. It becomes all about us, our family, our happiness, our schedules, our feelings etc. and so on. Then we awake one day and have forgotten even who we are because we forgot whose we are. In these forgotten places Jesus shows up.  Not sure about that today? Just remember His birth. It had been 400 years since the prophets spoke in the Old Testament (as we know it). Had God forgotten? No more than He had forgotten Joseph in Egypt for 40 years....no more than He forgot Moses for 40 years in the desert...no more than He forgot Abraham was 100 years having a kid. God's timing is different from ours but He doesn't forget. Just check out a manger in Bethlehem. Any forgotten places in your life needing a Savior? Keep looking, He will be there.

I'm glad Jesus also shows up in fearsome places. Why? Because I have them and don't know very well what to do with them. Mary, Jesus' mother found herself in a fearsome place in Luke 1: 26-30 when an angel pops in for a visit. His words "fear not, were followed by "you're going to have a baby"  Joseph is in a fearsome place in Matthew 1 when faced with a pregnant fiancee not of his doing and an angel shows up and says, "fear not...." The shepherds in Luke 2:10 get the same message, "fear not..." We hear fearsome words on the news, from the doctor, from the spouse, from children and grandchildren, financial advisors, the president and the news all the time. It's enough to make us want to run off to broken, forgotten places and hide. But the same message finds us today as it did them at the birth of Jesus, "fear not." What fear is speaking to you today? Is there Another voice with more authority  you need to hear?

To sum it all up, Jesus shows up in impossible places to bring His impossibly good news of salvation for all who believe. Bethlehem, not Rome, shepherds not Sanhedrin, old prophecies long forgotten, loud singing angels, wandering stars, a virgin, a stable, a manger, a BABY?....Really? Seriously?  No begging, no searching, no frantic bargaining, no self-effort? No, of all the ways and all the places you would never have expected Him to show up, it is in those places and in those ways He brings Christmas. All that to let us know He desires to spend Christmas in one special place: your heart.

Is there room?

Cos
Christmas 2014

Pastor Hayward Skips Church

Pastor Hayward didn't plan it that way, it just sorta happened. He had to skip church last Sunday. Death is never convenient and he had to officiate a funeral on Saturday, the day he and his lovely wife Jan originally had planned to leave. It was really okay. He was happy to help the family during their loss. Besides, leaving early Sunday would get them to the ski lodge in fine time, just not in time to go to church on Sunday morning at the ski resort chapel. So he and Jan got up early and left Sunday morning, skipping church with his guilt packed with his boxers.

About three hours in and through one thermos of coffee, they needed to stop. One, for the obvious reason, and two, well heck, they never got to eat breakfast out on Sunday and both were hungry. So guilt aside Pastor Hayward pulls off the interstate and into the County Line Diner. It was 9 AM and packed. Instead of waiting on ushers and choirs to do their part in the service they waited on a table for about seven minutes before their buzzer went off. Their table was right in the middle of the restaurant, right in front of the fireplace. Pastor Hayward had a good view of everyone.  Jan ordered  first: one egg, over medium with a side order of wheat toast. She noticed the Pastor's raised eyebrow. She knew he wasn't exactly thrilled with her choice. Hayward took advantage of being sprung from church and diet for a few days and ordered the County Line-backer: 2 strips bacon, 2 sausage patties, 2 eggs, 2 biscuits, and 2 buttermilk pancakes. Both of Jan's eyebrows went up.

Pastor Hayward sat back and sipped his coffee. He knew his breakfast might take a while since the County Line was really busy. He surveyed the scene. "So this is where people go who aren't in church," he thought to himself.  His eyes caught  a nice large family over in the corner. Must 13 or 14 of them....the little boy looks like Ralphy in A Christmas Story. 'Be careful kid, you'll put your eye out....'  They were happy in each other's company. A few tables in front of them was an old couple getting up to leave. He rocked, once, twice, and on the third rock forward the old guy was able to push\pull himself up. He shuffled by on the way to pay. Pastor Hayward thought about having to be on the highway with him and hoped he was a local. A very tall, graceful, black man came in with his wife and were seated to the right of the Haywards.  They were dressed like they had just come from church. Pastor wondered if he played basketball and chided himself for such stereotyping thoughts.   Just because a man is tall and black and moves so gracefully doesn't mean he played basketball. Still, Pastor Hayward figured he did and was very good at it.

There was a twenty-something couple over in the corner. They were cute. He was kind of a cowboy with an Aggie cap. She was tiny, blond and liked to twirl her fork between bites. Here comes a couple in their 60's and a man in his 70's with them. They had obviously been to church. They handed the waiter their church bulletin for a 10% discount. Pastor couldn't help but wonder if the single man was widowed or an old bachelor, single just for the day, or was related to the couple. He looked out of place, alone even, in a room with a hundred people. Pastor felt sorry for him. Then the large table right next to him and Jan began to fill in with a young family with three boys under six years of age. One looked 6, one just under him, maybe 4 or 5, and a little guy less than 2. This was a gorgeous young family. But about the time Pastor Hayward quit thinking about how pretty those boys were, how sweet the wife looked and movie star qualities the dad had, in fear he figured he was about to lose his one chance for a quiet breakfast on a Sunday morning. He needn't worry. Those boys were better behaved than 90% of the kids he saw at church. There were kind, loving eyes all around. Polite, sweet words were spoken in English and Spanish. It was great to see.

Pastor's and Jan's food arrived. Jan looked a little like Cinderella stuck in the corner with a little plate of one egg and some toast. Pastor's plates took up the rest of the entire table. He went to work on it, but he couldn't quite finish it off. Part of one biscuit and most of one pancake would have to go home to the cook's dogs. The family next table over received their food. Mom and Dad had regular breakfast plates that they shared back and forth. But the boys, with all that big menu before them had ordered Fruit Loops. Red, green, yellow, and orange Fruit Loops. The boys seemed to love them. They smiled at their dad, their mom winked at them and they dug in for more Loops.

It was time to go. Pastor started to get up but didn't make it. He rocked back and pushed up again but not quite. On the third time he was up but staggering. Jan mentioned she better drive a while. Pastor waddled to the car, fell into the front seat and was ready for a nap. He felt a little guilty he had skipped church this morning. But he knew something else, too. All these people he saw this morning had something in common. God wasn't mad at these people, in fact, He deeply loved them. From tall, graceful black men to a fork twirling 20 year olds to Aggie cap wearing cowboys, to dressed up church goers to Ralphy-look-a-likes to a family of five or a couple about 85-God loves them all.

Jan started the car and looked at her husband. ''You know, Hay, I almost feel like I've been to church this morning. You don't feel too bad about skipping do you?"  "No, in fact, I think the Lord preached me a good sermon without words. Drive careful."  Pastor Hayward popped a couple of tums. As he drifted off he reminded himself the next time he skipped church and went to breakfast, order Fruit Loops.

Cos

What's in Your Hand?

                   What if they do not believe me or listen to me and say, 'The Lord did not appear to you'?" Then the Lord said to him, "What is that in your hand?"   God and Moses, Exodus 4:1-2

It has been as unrelenting as a Plains wind in April. Every week, every day, every hour of every day the bad news pounds our senses. We seek solace and find it not in ordinary places. We need what the old spiritists called "thin places" where the eternal was somehow closer to the temporal and those ancient truths were more readily discovered and felt. Quite often it was on a wild mountain or deep forest or blue ocean a thin place was thought to exist.  But even if you discover the "thin places" there is the call back to daily living and the thick places of war, ISIS, Ebola, poverty, drugs, immorality, and Godlessness weigh us down again.

I want to help. I  really do. I don't know how. I really don't. I pray daily, often through the day and many times during the day for the victims, the abused, the forgotten, the diseased, and the discarded. I pray for those close to me whose names form easily on my lips and are spoken in love to God's heart. I pray for those with no names known to me, whose faces are unfamiliar to me, whose faith or lack of it are different from mine. They are uneasy prayers in that I don't know how God will respond or answer. But I don't know what else to do.

I want to help, to fix this thing. But I have no diplomatic skills, no political clout, not even an army to prevent a war or a madman or a mad religion. Those who supposedly possess these things and are wise in their use have had no success either. The death toll rises, as do the refugee camps. Broken homes, broken families, broken nations, and broken lives mount up.  I would like to help end and prevent war, but I don't know how.

I have no medical, scientific or research skills to end disease and its death. Ebola is the latest scare as it has come to the west and is not respectful of relative wealth, status, influence, facilities, or anything thought protected us. Passports, TSA screening, medical bulletins and tv reports haven't stopped it. In the wrong circumstances it will attack like cancers, Alzheimer's, ALS, the flu, heart failure and a hundred other diseases.  Today we are so much better off than ever before and yet Ebola reminds we have so far to go. I don't know how to stop disease and its pain and its deaths. I want to help. I pray. I give blood. I hope. I just don't know what else to do.

I want to help but I have no legal skills or political office. People are hurting, abused, forgotten, needy, often by no fault of their own. They have physical issues, mental issues, domestic violence issues. They need help. They need justice. They need a fair chance. Some new laws might help. Some lawmakers seeking justice instead of re-election or money for special interests might go along way. There are people that get into the courts and legislatures and battle for justice, on the personal level and institutional (governmental, medical, financial-economic, legal, educational, etc)  level. There are not enough of them. I do not think I am one of them. I pray. I vote, but I still want bananas for 40 cents a pound and I like my shirts cheaper because they are made by cheap labor in Singapore. I don't help like I could.

So I ask myself, 'how do I live in this world where so much needs to be done and I seem so ill-equipped, powerless, too far removed to affect much'? Then I recalled a fugitive shepherd on the far side of the desert, far removed from the capitals and leading cities of his day. His name was Moses. He was called by God to a task he felt ill equipped to handle. Too much baggage, too poorly spoken, too far removed, too many bad memories, too entrenched in today's living...go away God, I can't do it. Even if I did, who would believe me of all people?
Then God asked Moses, "what's in your hand?"  It's the same question He asks all of us, what has he placed in our hands? Answer it. It is an extremely important question, maybe only one other is more important.

'What is in my hand?'  is the same question God asked Moses long ago.  I must answer it myself. What is in my hands? God has placed in my hands a pulpit. It is a place to stand, to proclaim, to question, to correct, to encourage, to bless and share the greatness of God, the salvation of Christ, and the hope of eternity. There may be those present with other things placed in their hands, things that heal, that administer justice, and make peace. Maybe the pulpit is a burning bush with questions about Presence, thin places, and gifts placed in hands needing to be placed in service. I have a pulpit.

I have a pen. I can write, not as well as most, not as prolific as some but maybe my pen strokes the imagination of one who helps one who helps another who brings peace, hope and health to one forgotten or discarded. There may never be a lasting word from my pen but possibly its scribbles drew a line to Christ for someone and their own personal question of what is in their hand was read. I have a pen.

I have a prayer. It is heard. It is considered. It is answered. It is the least I can do. NO! It is the most I can do. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world.  On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds, arguments, and every pretension raised up against the knowledge of God.... II Cor. 10: 5    Prayer is divine power. I don't see it in my hands because I keep reaching for other weapons. But I have divine power to be used! Whatever that implies, I have a  prayer.

I want to help. I really do. I have a pulpit. I have a pen. I have a prayer. It is what God has placed in my hands. The question, 'what is in your hand?' is important to Kingdom living in a hurting, warring, diseased, and broken world. There is, however, one more important. What's in your heart? The hands will go no farther than the heart directs.

What's in your hands?
Cos

Harvest Time

       Jesus said, "Behold, I say to you, lift up your eyes and look on the fields, that they are white for harvest."  John 4:35  NAS

It is cotton harvest time in north central Texas. It is still probably early for west Texas cotton, although the harvest time varies from year to year. The cotton harvest can occur from September to December depending on the region, climate, rainfall, and heat of the summer. For most people these days, the cotton harvest is not noticed. Oh, they know they have underwear, a shirt and jeans and these came from cotton but the process is not noted by folks unless they live in rural areas and see it. Or unless you lived it as a kid.

I lived it. My dad and mom were cotton farmers as were their parents and their parents. Cotton was king in Texas for a time and my people served the king for generations.

Christmas was not the most important time of the year on the farm, neither was New Year's, back to school or any sale or season. Life was about the harvest. Yes, life had its other important parts, but none like the harvest. The ground was prepared in the winter, seeded in the spring. The new plants were "chopped" for weeds and sprayed for insects in the summer. It was hard work but so much of farming success was out of your hands. This country in the blackland prairie is dry-land cotton, no irrigation but by rainfall. So rain, heat, flood, drought and bug infestations could not be predicted very well and only the insects could be mitigated somewhat with costly chemicals. Some say farming is a big gamble, truth is it was more of an investment that paid off some years, and not so much in others. Everything done was done in anticipation of the harvest. Every year it was pretty much make or break. And although it was never stated, you just knew that harvest time was what everything done from January on was all about. It was only as important as eating, electricity, clothes, gasoline and hope that you could do it again next year.

Activity and anticipation would pick up as the cotton bolls opened and revealed the fluffy white fiber. All the hoeing, spraying, cultivating was done. My dad busied himself preparing the tractors, cotton stripper, and other equipment for the two or three weeks of hard labor it was about to endure. Weather forecasts were monitored early morning, noon, at six and ten PM watching for unwanted rain and moisture even from gulf hurricanes. (Not that you could do anything about it, but if the forecast was clear that was one less stressor.) Trailers were readied to transport the cotton to the gin. The markets were watched with worried eyes if you had contracted the crop early hoping you made a good deal. They were watched even more carefully if you weren't under contract in hopes the current price was right. It was harvest time, that said much on many levels.

On the way home from visiting my parents recently, I saw the "fields white unto the harvest" and stopped to snap a couple of pics. The harvesting process is different now, different equipment, but the same cotton. One big difference I noticed was the smell. In mom and dad's day, at least until the last ten years or so, the cotton around their area was "stripped" off the plant and the bolls and fibers were separated in the ginning. In order to make the stripper (harvester) work efficiently , the large, green leaves of the plant had to be killed with a defoliant. The defoliant had a very pungent smell. It was an acrid, acid-ey smell. Imagine farm after farm, dozens of farms all defoliating cotton and the smell that arose. It hung in the air for what seemed like a week or two. With farmhouses located next to or in the middle of cotton fields there was no escaping the smell of defoliant. (think Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now) But you knew for certain the harvest was soon, very soon.  The leaves of the cotton would die and crumble, the cotton bolls exposed and ready to harvest. The plant would die but the economy would live as would the Cosby's for another season.

The pace of harvesting was grueling for my parents and other farm families during harvest. Rising early to tend the equipment, greasing, gasing, adjusting and positioning trailers. Early runs to the gin to fetch the now empty trailers from last evening's haul to the gin. Then, about mid-morning when the dew was gone, it began. The old John Deere tractor with it's two-row stripper lumbered into the field pulling a two bale trailer. It had the feel of a conquering Roman general marching through the battlefield. The cotton was gathered in by the paddles and rollers, carried up a chute and blown into the trailer behind and "stacked" by a hired hand with a pitchfork. Hour after hour, through the day with a thirty or forty-five minute break for lunch and refueling the harvesting progressed. At the end of the day it was impossible to tell the black laborer in the trailer from my  father on the tractor such was the dust, dirt, and grime of the harvest. All were exhausted, shaken, sore, stiff,  and wheezing with lungs choked from the harvest. And all would do it again in a few more hours.

Then it was over. Ten days, two weeks, depending on how good the crop was and how big the farm, it was finished. The bales ginned. The seeds extracted. The dirt settled. The air clear again. The harvest was over. The farmer could breathe. The farmer could pay his bills. The wife could shop a little. The farmer could rest--for a day or two anyway.

I know that many in the Kingdom of God are tired. There is much work done and more to be done for Christ. It is exhausting. It can be frightening. There is much sin, meanness, hatred, fear, and death being faced in our world right now.  Keep up the good fight.  Can you sense the anticipation, the harvest is coming. The Eternal Farmer knows when the time is right. The harvest is plentiful. Join Him in the harvest. So many are unaware that the harvest is coming. Pray for more workers in the fields.  Yes, you will be shaken, sore, stiff, breathless, and oh, so tired. But the harvest is worth it.  It means life.  Soon, as the Farmer measures time, the harvest will be over, then comes the rest, then comes the rest, but now the harvest. 

Cos

Stumbling Toward Righteousness

                                                  Stumbling Toward Righteousness


I have driven myself crazy trying to find it. Yes, that's a short trip for me. But I can't find who wrote or spoke the quote I want to use. I am tempted to take credit for it but it seems too profound for me to have come up with it. I have carried it in my mind for a long time. I read or heard it somewhere--college, seminary, a lecture, a sermon, a bad dream--I just don't know for sure.

I've looked in my books--too many to go through. I've read through a few old sermons--too dusty to sift through. So I tried Dr. Google, she's like a first wife, she knows everything. I type the quote in and even Dr. Google is stumped. I thought for years that G.K. Chesterton from the early 20th century said it. I went through a few books of his I've read---no luck. Oh, I guess by now you are wondering what quote I have carried all these years but can't find its author. Okay, here goes:

    "When my days are completed and come to an end, may it be said by those who look back on my life, that he stumbled in the general direction righteousness."

Well, I can tell by that look on your face that your are disappointed. I never said it was a great quote or even a good one, just a profound one. I like it. For me it fits like an old pair of jeans or that soft, thin shirt at the back of the closet. Your wife won't let you wear it in public anymore but it feels good around the house or yard where the dogs don't care what it looks like.

Why do I like it so well? I guess because I know how to stumble. When I was young I thought I could fly. I could soar above the church battles and other war zones, drop truth in sermons and lessons on folks to help their lives and make the world a better place. But, the truth is, I couldn't fly.

With a little aging and maturing I thought I could run. I would run through this world and all its troubles, stopping long enough to give the answers it needed on how to get to heaven and get better. But I couldn't run, at least not far.

As the aging and maturation process continued I thought I could walk. I did a little. I was better at walking. It was slower but surer. But at the walking pace what I was sure to see were the faces, the eyes of the world. The world both shrinks and expands when you walk. It expands as you can take more in to your senses and your heart at the slower pace. It shrinks, too, for at the slower pace you see more intently the eyes of hunger, the pain of divorce, the brokenness of poverty, the hell of war, and the hopelessness of lives without Christ. You remember all the teachings and the sermons and the visits you made telling "how to" do something, fix something, know something, feel something, change something but you flew too high and the truths blew off in the wind and never landed. Or you ran too fast and the help you offered was just a blur. Now you walk for a while and you see, feel and know the issues, the problems, the pains are just too deep for a mere man to handle no matter how high he flies, how fast he runs, or how steady he walks.

But I know how to stumble. I have stumbled as a kid, as a student, as an athlete, as a husband, father, friend, pastor, and a human. There is no area where honesty's light touches that I haven't stumbled. And yet...

When you stumble, you're not too high to see or be seen, too fast to catch, or too concerned with much anything else but the next step. You just stumble, trip, weave, go in the direction of the greatest pull. When your body stumbles, gravity pulls you where your weight is centered, most often down. When you soul stumbles and you belong to Jesus, His righteousness pulls you toward Him. You can stumble and unseen hands reach out to steady you and keep you upright as you move ever bumbling toward Him.  Truly, there are times he lets us fly, bids us run, keeps us walking. I always thought the progression of Isaiah 40:31 was interesting. but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk, and not faint."  You would have expected the opposite progression would be true, first we walk, then we run, then we soar. But I know now that is not the order. And this too I know, I still have some stumbling left to do. But God is faithful to me and my fellow stumblers. "If the Lord delights in a man's way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand. "  Psalm 37:24

One day I will stumble no more. On that day, when stumbling ends, I will fall, and by God's grace it will be at the feet of Jesus to worship. In the meantime, by that same grace, may I stumble in the direction of His righteousness.

Cos

A Bridge Too Far

Getting to our church has become a bit more complicated since one of the main bridges into the housing development has eroded and is closed. A  roundabout detour has been opened and folks will just have to deal with it until it is fixed. Since the church I pastor is an interdenominational church, which I highly recommend, the bridge outage and repair has highlighted some opposing ways to handle the situation based on the different faith backgrounds we have in the chapel. I am having to remind all the folks that all mindsets are to be respected and all methods offered are to be given courtesy even if they are off the wall.

Here are some of the ideas and suggestions put forth to handle the bridge situation:

The Episcopalians have called their congressman and are organizing a fund raiser for bridge relief.
The Lutherans have called several of their engineer friends to draw up a new, reformed bridge design that will last longer than the old bridge.
The Methodists have organized relief efforts for those stranded on the island and to promote unity among those otherwise impacted by the fall of bridge.
The Baptists are calling for a series of evangelistic meetings down by the bridge around the theme, "Jesus is Our Bridge Over Troubled Waters."
Our Charismatic friends are asking me to lead a healing service and lay hands on the bridge.
The Presbyterians said the bridge was predestined to collapse and our calling is now to live faithfully.
The Bible Church folks are having a detailed, brick by brick study of the history of bridge decay and are investigating to see if this is a sign of the apocalypse.
The Catholic faithful assess no blame, have offered forgiveness to the bridge, and will hold a bridge blessing service when the new one is installed.

The pastor at the chapel highly endorses each effort (the secret to pastoring 8 different denominations).

Cos

Rock of Ages

                                                   Rock of Ages


Ok, so I shot myself with a cannon ball. It is true. No, Iwas not hurt seriously. Due to my superior reflexes and athletic ability I was able to minimize the damage. It would take more than a mere cannon ball to get the Cos.

Still, how did a 16 lb. cannon ball end up attacking me? It was simple, I was gardening. What, you don't garden with a 16 lb. shot put? Why not? It only makes sense. I live on a rock. There is a song in most hymnals about where I live: The Solid Rock. Except for the big tree in front of the house there was no vegetation on the lot on which we built. Plants, at least pretty ones, don't like to grow on rock. Some soil was brought in for a yard but about six inches down you hit rock. So every plant, shrub, flower, and tree I have planted has to have rock displaced to put it in the ground. Most of the vegetation we planted goes to the front yard. There is not much else to do in the front except offer yearly $50-$60  sacrifices to the gardening gods with annuals that last a month and perennials that last two months. The back yard is pretty bare.

So the wife decides we need something more back there, some color, some texture, some interest, something else for the dogs to pee on and something to die a slow agonizing death on the rock. We found a crepe myrtle that matched the type in the front yard. We picked a place along the back fence. I begin to dig.
The hole will be about 18 inches around. It will need to be about 18 inches deep for this crepe myrtle. The 18 inches around are a cinch, easy. I'm not even sweating. The first four inches down are just as easy and then it happens. I hit rock. A friend calls it "chunk" rock. It comes out in chunks. I've come prepared. Hammer, nail pry bar, and shovel. The shovel is finished at six inches. I hit a large solid rock at 8. I hammer, pry, dig, curse, dig, pry, cry--nothing. Time for the shot. I find my 16 lb. shot from college that I have carried with every move we've made through the years. Only my wife has moved as much and been more faithful.

The plan is to propel the shot with great force into the hole, strike the rock a mighty blow, crack the rock,  use the hammer to fragment the rock, and pull the dislodged pieces of the rock out of the hole. With the first heave into the rock I have some success but find I have two large rocks in there, not one. I go to work with shot, hammer, bar, fingers and after 45 minutes have the right side of the hole cleared of the big rock to a depth of 12 inches. Now the left side rock or the rock that's left, if you will. It is bigger, deeper. I lift the shot high over head and bring it down with such force that as I propel it into the hole my feet are lifted off the ground. Thud! Nothing. No cracks, chunks, no movement. Different angle. Thud! Same results. Move around the hole. Rare back. Dead aim on the center of the rock and swhoosh.....THUD! The shot bounces off the dead center of the rock and comes out of the hole faster than it went in. I know from physics that this is impossible but you don't know this rock. It flies out zeroing in on my knee which I am able with my cat-like reflexes to turn just slightly so the projectile glances off the outside of my knee.

Lamentations. I am defeated. Wife administers Gatorade, cold towels and Aleve. I channel Douglas MacArthur or Gregory Peck,"I shall return."

Retiring the shot, I employ new hardware next evening.  A long "rock" bar with a wedge end is used with  some success. After an hour of pounding, hammering, prying, crying and cursing, the large rock is out. The hole for the crepe myrtle is now sixteen inches deep and eighteen inches wide. It is lined with garden soil mixed with what dirt I could dust off the extracted rocks. The myrtle is planted. It will live this year but it has no promise of a long, tall future. It's future may not blossom but if plants have a soul, then it will know of the supreme effort made to give it life.

Sitting exhausted in the grass, I figure about four-man hours of labor was put into one small hole in order for me to kill an $18 plant. Then it dawns on me...how many hours, nay eons, did Jesus invest to break through the hardness of human hearts to  plant the seed of the gospel? The Rock of Ages busting through the rock of hardened hearts. It brings life, promised, guaranteed, and delivered. I see the crepe myrtle and am pleased. How much more the Lord when He sees His truth growing well in hearts of faith.  Our hope is built on nothing less.

Rock Gardening,
Cos