Oh yeah?

I broke my leg three weeks ago. The day before I broke my leg, my 8-year-old son decided he wanted to learn to use the lawnmower. This was providence. Why? Because I somehow miscalculated the amount of hay I had left in my neighbor's barn (or someone helped themselves to it) and so in order to stretch what hay I had remaining, I needed to mow several wheelbarrows of grass per day for the horses. This is not a problem, as I have access to not only my own front pasture, but my neighbor's as well. However, with a broken leg, I am not able to mow it. So my mighty little man has won the job. He does not always do this with a willing heart. But he does do it. Of course, as he is only 8, I need to watch closely that he takes all the safety precautions I have given him. The grass is long and often damp and often clogs, at which point he has to shut of the mower and either empty it or unclog it. I feel like a broken record, telling him over and over to back up the mower off the pile of grass under the blade before starting it. Unfortunately, I have too often worded it in a way that triggers his Richter gene.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Richter gene (though I suppose it could also be labeled the "Smith gene"), it is that tendency of our family to stand up in the face of "It can't be done." I have been told that if you want to get a Richter to do something, you merely have to tell them it can't be done. Thus, when I say to my son, "Back the lawnmower up, you can't start it where it is." His Richter gene answers, "Oh, yeah? Watch me!" And one particular day last week, on the third wheelbarrow, when his "Oh, yeah? Watch me!" had earned him a sore neck and shoulder, and my thousandth chorus of "Back it up" was somewhat lethargic and unemotional, I finally added, "Well, you CAN start it that way, but IF you back it up, it will start easier." And it finally sunk in.

Then tonight, I had asked him to put our dalmatian in her crate, which is under his loft bed, before he climbed up, but he had forgotten, and he said, "It's okay, I can do it from up here, " and I said, "No, you can't reach it" triggering that ol' Richter gene, "Oh yeah?" Of course I move in with my crutches to try to close the crate before he gets to it, and also to catch him when he falls...which is what would happen....

So what is the deal? And how do I corral this spirit of his? I don't want to break it. I think this determination is a God-given attribute, and I know, that if directed properly, it will serve him well. But how do I direct his challenges away from needing to prove me wrong? I think part of this is coming in response to me needing him to do things for me because of my leg. I think he is gaining a sense of importance and "manliness" from being needed. But at the same time, I want him to respect me and not meet every "negative" thing I say with, "Oh yeah? Watch me!"

Perhaps it is simply the way I am wording things. But for the life of me, even if I word it like, "Maybe if you try it this way..." I am still met with resistance. He wanted to be in the horse pasture with me today when the farrier was trimming our pony's feet. I had him put some hay out for the mustangs to keep them occupied, and he was thinking he could play in the pasture with us because they were distracted. When I told him no, that I could not be in there with crutches AND look out for him AND hold Jake, he stomped his foot and turned his back to me. So I sent him inside. And I was right. Our horses have been so neglected because for 3 weeks I have not done anything with them, they were all over the farrier and I begging for scratches and attention....never mind the food.

Poor boy. He comes by this gene honestly. Whether it is indeed a Richter gene or a Smith gene, I suspect most families carry it. It is expressed more obviously in some than in others. But certainly, it is strong in me. I was the same way to authority as a child. I was telling a friend the other day how I used to steel myself when a spanking was coming and would not cry. Is he destined for a life of difficulty because he resists authority?

And I think about how God has dealt with me. It hasn't been with lashes and stanchions. A will like mine will only fight harder when confined. I have been like a wild horse at the end of a rope. God has just let me have plenty of rope, pulling on the rope gently to guide me this way or that. But over the years I have learned that the suggestion of the rope is generally in my best interest, and so I have learned to resist my first instinct to pull back against the rope, and have learned to trust the person on the other end. And it has been through building relationship and trust that God has tamed my spirit. Often, my first instinct still is to pull back; but it might only be a twitch now, rather than the battle it would have been in my youth.

I hope that God gives me the wisdom and the courage to give K lots of rope, and to calmly call him back, again and again and again......

(Suggestions are always welcome!)

Marred in the Potter's Hands (The Easter Tree)

When we moved to our acre in 1992, I purchased a tree from one of those nursery catalogs you get in the mail. It was a flowering cherry and was never really supposed to get very large, maybe 8 feet tall, with a span of 12 feet or so. I had a vision that it would mark the boundary between our "parking area" and the "front yard". We put a mobile home on an acre of pasture that formerly housed horses--for as long as I lived in Junction City anyway--so I use the term "yard" loosely. It was not very big when I planted it--no taller than me, having arrived in the mail.

It was a quaint little tree. And it marked the corner of the parking area well. Then one day, after it had been growing in it's spot for about 10 years, we had a really big windstorm. Limbs and entire trees were falling all around us. My neighbor had a sequoia in his yard that forked about 5 feet off the ground, and during this windstorm one of the forks fell, essentially cutting my little tree in half.

I was heartbroken. I loved my little tree. But I didn't cut it down. I decided to wait and see what it would do. Six weeks later, it bloomed.

The next winter, when I pruned it, I left every branch that was reaching over to fill the gap. Clearly, the tree wanted to live. Just a little over a year after the storm that tried to kill it, it was again the focus of my mother-in-law's Easter tradition. In fact, we have dubbed this tree "The Easter Tree". We had called it that before it was ever damaged because it is esseintally directly in front of our living room window, the "centerpiece" of our front yard, and was small enough that my mother-in-law could hang treat-filled plastic eggs from it for our children on Easter.

But beyond being a tree to hang eggs from, it has become, to me, a tree of hope, a tree of resurrection. I had thought it would die, but with careful pruning it has flourished. When you look at this tree in full bloom, you probably would not guess that it had ever been bisected. You are caught by its beauty and fragrance. If your eyes land on its trunk, the scars are evident. It's only when you see it in the winter, stripped bare of its leaves, that you can read the story of injury and regrowth.

And now, seven years later, the tree has seemed to flourish, growing bigger than I ever expected it to. It is now big enough for a tire swing. Every spring we enjoy its fragrant blooms and the "snow" when the petals fall. The cats play tag in its branches. It provides camoflauge and rest for migrating canaries and finches every year. It sends up suckers from it roots 40 feet away! But most of all, it is a continual reminder that life follows death, spring follows winter, and restoration follow loss.