A Drip, A Scratch, an Open Door

Our garage door opener has had a mind of its own in recent days, opening randomly and inconveniently; through the night; while we are out running errands; tempting fate -- or worse.  Sometimes it balks, opening part-way on occasion, before thinking better of its progress and returning to close.  Perhaps it is for the first time in weeks it is actually feeling the electrical impulses through its circuits and wires and, enjoying the remembered experience, can’t get enough.

I understand the sensation, having forgotten how warm 23-degrees could feel until compared with -18.  Even the icicles dangling from the eaves have been happily dripping with just the least encouragement from the sun, defying the still-freezing temperatures.  The chickens burst enthusiastically down the ramp this morning, skittering and fluttering around the spread straw, happy to stretch their wings and legs after weeks of lethargic huddling inside.  Sam, the rooster, made evident that he had a few more expansive things on his mind, too, as he chased the girls around the clearings.

The world is coming alive, it seems, moreso than merely waking.  As if for the first time in this New Year, it seems actually willing to make a fresh go of it after all; as if daringly considering possibilities after keeping hunkered down in the fetal position up until now just hoping to survive.  Indeed, for longer than I can quantify the entire universe has seemed clenched, braced for the next blow…

...from the weather…
…from the flu…
…from the politicians…
…from the vague “out there” for which we didn’t even have a name.

It has been cold in more ways than one — a bitter, paralyzing cold.

But the hens are foraging this morning instead of merely feeding.  Sam is crowing with renewed vigor. Ice is dripping.   The sun is shining.  A new week is commencing.

Maybe the garage door is simply trying to tell me something with its insistence on opening.

Like maybe I should, too.

Trudging Into the New Snow and Year

Deer tracks in the snow are the lone signs of movement on this New Year's morning, save for the handful of birds scittering around the coops, scavenging for a few grains of flung feed. It's -18 as I refresh the chickens' water and feeders, confirming with relief and a peek inside that all survived the frigid night. Trudging back to the house and my warm spot by the fire I think, with a smile, of Jayne Floyd's parting crack as I left East Texas to begin a new ministry 25 years ago today — "I hope you freeze to death!" Teething my gloves and liners off my numb-frozen hands I consider how close she is to getting her wish.

I never imagined, 25 years ago, how deeply my roots would find their way into this Iowa soil and snow; that after a professional lifetime ministering in a troubled but returning urban neighborhood I would settle into a rural acreage with my wife and dogs and a determination to experience first-hand where food comes from. And yet now, 25 years later, retrieving eggs from beneath our hens and anticipating another season of seeds in the soil, it's hard to imagine being anywhere else.

Time, though, is like that — along with the centrifugal force of continuous learning. There is no telling where it might fling you.

And now, with the sun climbing above the orange horizon of this New Year's morning, I wonder what its unfolding days and months will bring. I know it's more common to make Resolutions in these embryonic days, but that practice has always struck me as presumptuous. Let me instead simply determine to be healthy and fully alive and present to each emerging moment; let me pay attention to the fertile possibilities sprouting in each new day, learning what I can, experiencing what they offer, giving thanks for their generosity, following where they lead, and finding nourishment in it all.

And who knows, maybe in the course of it all my fingers will eventually thaw.