Seedtime and Harvest

 My husband closed his sermon with a story I'd heard many times before, but I was just as moved as the rest of the congregation by his fervent, gripping manner of speaking.  He was determined to give every dramatic detail of the true experience of two young missionaries many years ago.

They had gone as naive Christian workers from Stockholm, Sweden, to a remote area in the wilds of Africa.  Another couple went with them, but when they had hacked their way through the undergrowth to arrive at a settlement, they were rebuffed by the natives. Again they hacked through the treacherous terrain, erected flimsy shelters, and attempted to reach the people with the gospel.  After six months of exhausting and seemingly futile efforts, the second couple despaired and went back to the mission station to return home.  The first couple would have gone with them, but by this time the wife was six months pregnant and couldn't travel.

Day after day, they struggled.  They had learned Swahili and tried to win people over, but their efforts were met with disinterest and hostility.  All except for one young boy who came to their hut every week to sell them fresh fruit or an occasional live chicken.  The young missionary wife befriended him and told him stories from the Bible.  Though somewhat interested, he did not accept the Lord.

Before long, a baby girl was born in these discouraging circumstances, joining a two-year-old brother.  A few weeks later, the mother became seriously ill.  A searing infection reached its peak and left the husband a  widower with a crying newborn in his arms and a toddler hanging on to his trouser legs.

Standing over the grave of his beloved wife and destroyed by grief, the missionary declared he was through.  He gave the little girl to the missionaries at the mission station, took the small child, and returned to Sweden.

Years passed, and the baby, who was adopted by another missionary couple, grew up and was sent to the U.S. for college.  She married a man who would become prominent in the national leadership of their denomination. Many years later, the opportunity arose for the couple to go to a church conference overseas.  The keynote speaker and organizer of the event attended by thousands was a striking black man with a commanding presence, the president of his denomination.  As he spoke, he mentioned being in the area where the baby girl was born.

The American lady talked to him and asked if he remembered the young missionaries she described, giving their names.  "Why yes," he said, "I used to sell them chickens and fruit.  The missionary's wife told  me Bible stories.  I heard her husband left when she died after their baby girl was  born."

"I am that little girl," she replied.  She subsequently located her father and convinced him that their labor had not been in vain.  One small boy reached with the gospel had resulted in uncounted thousands for the Lord.  The father, who had lived a life of bitterness and rebellion, found a place of repentance and forgiveness and was able to return once again to see his beloved Africa, this time seen through tears, not of defiance, but of gratefulness to God.  

"If You Can't Stand the Heat..."

 It seemed like such a good idea to use up some bananas that were getting too ripe. Howard heard  me say I was going to make banana pudding, and he suggested I make banana-nut bread while I was at it. Well, okay, I finally got the pudding finished after picking up pudding mix at the store. My recipe called for whipped topping, but I hadn't gotten any of that, so I made meringue, separating the whites and beating them.  I guess the egg yolks would be good for the banana bread, I thought.  I had plenty of vanilla wafers on hand for the pudding, so the dessert came out to our satisfaction.  (I can't be sure, but I noticed my husband had been sampling it eagerly.

By this time, I was a little tired to make banana bread from scratch, and it occurred to me I could use some of my baking mix. I seemed to remember doing that once before, but there was a recipe on he back of that particular box, and there wasn't one on this one.  Oh well, how hard could it be?  I wanted it to turn out like my favorite recipe, "Banana Bread with Oatmeal," from a 30-year-old church cookbook that was now held together by rubber bands. I sorted through the out-of-order loose pages for the contribution of our then-60-year-old youth leader, a successful business woman who loved kids.

I'd already started mixing things together, but something seemed amiss, so I thought I'd better check her recipe.  Hm-m. It called for two 1/2 cups of flour, and I only had two cups of baking mix.  I wondered if that would matter.  I was reminded to soak the oatmeal in buttermilk, (made by adding vinegar to milk) and to use soda.  The batter seemed a little thin, but I put it in the oven.  Checking the loaf awhile later, I reached in and touched the surface to feel it kind of deflate. When it was done, it had an ominous hollow down the middle.  Flipped out of the pan and turned upside down, though, it wasn't even noticeable.  I wonder what Howard will say when he sees the loaf is hollow?

Next he asked me to make soup for supper out of remains of a baked chicken from a few days ago.  It had made a nice meal then, and we'd already had sandwiches from it, plus I had served slices of it in the gravy over rice for another meal. (Around here, we say chicken is the gift that keeps on giving.)  I had seen him nibbling on the foil-wrapped carcass several times, so I didn't think there was anything left on it.  But now it is boiling away with carrots, peas, and miniature bow-tie pasta from 1/2 a box left from an earlier soup.  

I'm beginning to think frugality is not all it's cracked up to be, and that restaurant meals are worth every penny.  I'm exhausted from cleaning up messes, washing utensils and having iffy outcomes. I know how Martha must have felt when she asked Jesus to make her sister help.  If he told Martha to get out of the kitchen, that's good enough for me!

The Good Earth

 "Mom! Dad! Do you want to help us plant a garden this year?" our son Greg asked with his typical enthusiasm. He explained that one of the churches was designating a large expanse of their sunny back lawn as a community garden project. For a nominal fee, city dwellers like us who had the gardening bug but no space for one could enjoy a great summer activity.

My husband heartily agreed while I warmed up to the idea. I remembered gardens being a lot of work as a kid, but I also remembered gathering bushels of tomatoes and that sunshiny, vine-ripe taste of eating one fresh off the vine while the juice ran down my arm as I picked. So Greg signed us up for a 12x40 foot space for us to share with his family.

It was a win/win situation. The church prepared the soil, gave out seeds, provided the water and even encompassed the whole 1600' plot with a border of marigolds (a natural bug repellant--chemicals were not allowed.) Our kids eagerly set out to plan our garden. Being very analytical, they plotted it on graph paper with appealing-looking little sections, some on the diagonal, illustrated with neatly sketched rows of onions, peas, watermelons, etc. This looked like fun.

It was a little labor intensive, especially the watering part (plastic 50 gallon drums were mounted on stands enclosed in the middle of the garden to drain into buckets or watering cans), but later a hose was run from the church. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant diversion to go there in the late afternoon and attend to our project.

Scattering mulch, weeding, putting up tomato cages and other chores left us with dirt on our hands and tired bodies, but it was a pleasant tiredness. Almost before we knew it, we were enjoying leaf lettuce, radishes, and green onions, followed by green peppers, a smattering of peas and even a few green beans (we needed to perfect our skills in this area). Soon we were chatting with fellow gardeners, commiserating over the lack or abundance of rain, comparing notes and casting smug or envious glances over the crop. Several area feeding programs were the benefits of our excess. 

Now we were getting tomatoes, cantaloupe and watermelons, and the pumpkins that were green earlier are dotting the landscape with great orange orbs. Not only are we reaping the benefits of our garden, we were blessed with the visual treat of everyone's efforts.  The garden shimmers Eden-like on the landscape, a heavy planting of giant zinnias bobbing their Mexican colors down the length of the garden, purple blooms from the vines dripping from the trellis surrounding the water barrels, rows of cornstalks that formerly waved tassels in the wind have produced tempting ears of corn (never mind that they were stolen--our Eden isn't perfect, either).

So with the exception of a few snitched watermelons and other kinks that need to be worked out, the project was a success. They're talking of expanding it next year, and we'll probably be first in line. The wonder of pulling food from the good earth is too magical to resist!

The Golden Years

 "Its so nice to have a man to do that!" a woman who was returning her shopping cart for the 25 cent deposit said as she noticed Howard pulling the car up to collect me and our groceries. I smiled in agreement.  I was getting in the car and he was loading the groceries when she walked past again on her way to her car. "That's a good guy!" she called back to me.

Well, of course, I know that, and probably even take for granted that he will do all the "man" things. (But the shopper likely didn't notice the leg splint I had on, mostly hidden by the loose Capri pants I was wearing.)  It's easy to forget that there are many single moms out there who struggle with daily chores, not to mention older widows or those who live alone. And there are just lots of women with spouses who have to, or like to, do things on their own.

My husband used to work six days a week, not getting home until seven or eight o'clock at night, for most of the years our children were growing up.  Then it fell to me to do everything without him--school events, shopping, picking up kids, doctor appointments and on and on.  His only time was Sunday, which was church in the morning, lawn mowing and/or a nap in the afternoon, and church at night.

I admit I had gotten a little spoiled now that he is home so much and we do everything together. But he has always been the consummate gentleman, polite and considerate even at home, and naturally assuming heavy chores or difficult tasks.  I am a truly blessed woman in having a faithful, loving husband who has been such a godly example for our children.

The great passage on marriage in Ephesians 5:22-33 says in verse 25, "Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church and gave himself for it." I can't think of any other person that fulfills that command any more than my husband. There is a saying that goes, "The best thing a man can do for his children is to love their mother." It must be true, because 53 years (now 62 years)of marriage says a lot, as do the marriages of our six children. Howard is with the Lord now, reaping the joy and rewards of his faithfulness here below.