Animals

REFUGE

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

There are a few sections of our yard that are overgrown. As weird as that may sound, it’s intentional. We want to have pockets that are all natural, even if that means they look a little crazy. Those natural patches provide a refuge for the things we want to welcome into our yard. 

Birds. 

Frogs. 

Pollinators. 

Squirrels. 

The occasional rabbit. 

We love all these little guys. Seeing them each day makes us smile, and so, because we want them to visit us — and feel safe enough even make their home here — we leave a few sections wild and untouched. 

But a few weeks ago, we had an unexpected visitor. 

A disheveled, long-haired, Siamese (or at least part Siamese) cat. 

We recognized it as the neighbors’, who live kitty corner. They have two cats and both have visited our yard on occasion. While we have nothing against cats, we tend to shoe them away, hollering things like. . .

“Go home.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Leave the birds and the squirrels alone.”

“This isn’t your yard.”

It often works. At least for the other cat. But this one, this one just stares back at us and lays his head back down and closes his blue eyes. We can walk all the way up to it and it doesn’t flinch. 

I admit, at first, I was annoyed. After all, he had decided to make my flower bed into his preferred nap spot.  He didn’t care that he was crushing the irises I planted from blub last fall. Didn’t care that he was knocking the blooms over, destroying the beauty I had tried to manicure. 

A few days went by and Mr. Cat kept coming back to the same spot. He’d be there when we went to bed and sometimes when we woke up. That’s when we got worried. Maybe he was sick. 

Erik walked over to the neighbors and asked them about it. They said he does his own thing and for a while slept in our other neighbor’s shed. Huh. Ok. But then we told them that he’s been letting us get close and pet him and they got worried. That’s not like him. He usually runs away from people. 

Uh oh. 

So they came and gingerly scooped the cat out of a shady spot on our lawn and took him to the vet for a check-up. Apparently he was fine, because the next day, the cat was back. 

It’s been weeks now and nearly every day, we find Mr. Cat snoozing somewhere in our yard. Usually, he’s curled up somewhere against the side of the house. Yesterday, he was tucked between branches under a bush. 

Now, I don’t look for the cat to shoe it away. I look for the cat to see where he is. I’ve realized that for him, our yard is a safe and quiet space. A place he can rest. A refuge. And as much as I wasn’t thrilled about it at first, as I’ve thought more about it, I’ve been able to recognize we all need that. 

We all need a safe, quiet space to curl up in. 

We need a place where we can let go. 

A place that doesn’t demand anything from us. 

For Mr. Cat, that’s our yard. 

For a lot of people, that’s the church. Or at least it should be. 

The church should be a place that makes space for anyone and everyone. Even if they look a little rough around the edges. Even if you wouldn’t pick them to be your best friend. Even if they sometimes drive you a little crazy. Even if you think they’re freaks.

It makes me sad to think about how many people don’t feel welcome in the church. They think they have to look a certain way, act a certain way, wear certain clothes. On one hand, I get it. Church is often a place where we bring our best selves because it’s a small way that we can honor God. 

But on the other hand, I don’t think that God really cares that much what we’re wearing or what we look like. I think he’s just glad we’ve taken the risk to step into new terriority. And I think He wants us to find safety, refuge, and love there. 

The only way that happens is if we stop chasing away the people we don’t want and make room for everyone. 

Even the ones that don’t look like us. 

Even the ones who say the wrong the at the wrong time. 

Even the ones who haven’t showered in a week. 

Even the ones who think differently than we do. 

What would happen if instead of trying to protect their own space, Christian churches threw their doors wide open and welcomed anyone – and everyone – who needed refuge. 

What if we greeted them warmly?

What if we got them a cup of coffee? 

What if we made them feel safe and welcome? 

What if they curled up and decided to stay? 

I think that’s the life – and the gospel – that Jesus invites His followers to live out. He knows it’s not easy. He knows we are all about self-protection. He knows we want to keep things neat, tidy, and pretty. But He also knows that if we look carefully enough, we’ll see ourselves in every person we encounter. Because no matter how we look, at our core, all of us, are  the “least of these.” 

Is it easy? No. 

Is it worth it? You tell me. 

LIFE CYCLE LESSONS

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

The garden is in. 

The  tomato plants I started tenderly in January are in their permanent homes. 

The kale, broccoli, and lettuce have been transplanted, too. 

Much to my surprise, almost everything I started from seed has survived. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s producing yet. For that, I’ve got to wait longer. As I wait, I can’t help but tuck a few more seeds into the open spaces. And because Erik and I would love to grow even more of our own food, I’ve started another round of carrots. 

And those carrots take their sweet, sweet time. For me, that means it takes about 2 weeks of consistent watering before the first hint of growth even begins to pop through the starter mix. The glimpse of green is so small I do a double take. I get onto my hands and knees, my face inches away from the soil. 

Did they? Did they? 

Yes!

A sprout, thin as a blade of grass, has started stretching towards the light. A few days later, the sprout is taller and no longer alone. It’s brothers and sisters joined it. Now there are 11 sprouts . . . no . . .13!

As I’m counting, I notice something. 

A few of the starts are wearing a hat. 

What is that? I peer closer. 

Oh, of course! 

Some of the seed casings are still hanging on. The stems are stretching taller, but the cotyledons are trapped in the husk. Its job is done, but it can’t seem to let go. 

I start to reach forward, then stop. I want to help. If I ever so carefully remove the “hat,” I’ll free the leaves from their straight jacket. They’ll have full access to the light. That’s what they need to grow! 

But because I’ve been trying to slow down more, I sit back and take a few breaths and think. A half-second later I remember a conversation I had with a friend on Sunday. Her family home schools, and this spring they’ve been learning about life cycles. They’ve watched butterflies emerge from silk cocoons and baby chickens break though the shell of eggs. 

“When we saw the first crack in the shell, we cancelled the whole day,” she says. “We all just sat there, watching this tiny beak break its way through. We wanted to help it. Just pull back a tiny piece of the shell, but we didn’t. We had just learned that butterflies need the entire process of breaking out of the cocoon to strengthen their wings. If you slice the cocoon open, or tug it off, attempting to help, the butterfly will always have weaker wings. It might never fly.  . . It’s like God had a plan or something,” she finishes with a glorious flare of sarcasm. 

As I stare at my burdened carrots, I think through the implication of her story. 

If God has purpose in the struggle for butterflies and chickens, He probably has purpose in it for plants, too. 

The next thing you know, I’m picturing an anemic zucchini plant from last year. I’d started it from seed and thought I was helping when I gently pulled the expired seed casing off its brand-new leaves. It never really recovered. The left leaf – the one where the casing had been stuck, stayed misshapen and weirdly yellow, even though it had been freed! The plant eventually grew, but it didn’t flourish the way it should have. At the time, I chalked it up to not being good at growing zucchini. Now I’m realizing it suffered because it didn’t go through its intended struggle. 

It needs the struggle to survive. 

Resistance makes it stronger. 

The right amount of pressure allows it to fully grow into what it was meant to be. 

If it’s true for plants, butterflies, and chickens, it’s probably true for me, too. I guess I need to wrestle through things to become stronger and to be who God intends for me to be. 

Right now, I feel a little like my carrot seedling. Something is weighing me down and I just can’t shake it. 

I want someone to reach down and pull me out of the sadness I feel. 

I want to know that it will all be ok. 

I want to rush to the other side. 

But today, I’m reminded that there is purpose in the process. So, once again, I pull my hands away from my seedling tray. My carrots will undoubtably be stronger from wrestling. I hope I will, too.