At Least They're Committed

I’ll pay for that, but how could I help it?

Again, I am lame, gingerly taking steps to heal myself — or not taking steps as it were. I vowed before our arrival to resist the lure of the creek that’s actually a river or at least a large stream, and stay on the wraparound porch. The views, after all, are breathtaking.

But the Lepidium and Encelia and rotundifolia (according to my phone) wildflowers were waving, beckoning me in the afternoon breezes, and the stream rippled in such a way I was sure I heard my name . . . Triiiipiiiing Rauuuuul (OK, that’s not my name).

It would be a sin not to answer, wouldn’t it? I traversed down the overgrown path (mowing tools to arrive tomorrow), past the four-foot-deep fire pit that needs excavating (I think some wanderers had a woodsy here before our takeover), and up to the stony drop-off leading to the riverbank and the cold, rushing water.

Merely a few yards from the rapids (of sorts), I didn’t make that final ‘leap,’ at least I knew better than that. And now that I’ve wandered back, I am confident I shouldn’t have made the trek at all. But how can I regret it?

Hummingbirds whir past, fighting and trilling, as I step back into the house to take my spot in front of the bay windows. They largely ignore the feeder topped with sugar water, as nature’s nectar is far more appealing. The chipmunks flit around the deck, mastering any obstacles that would keep them from stuffing their cheeks with the sunflower seeds I’ve placed on the railing.

They share the feast with white-headed sparrows, blackbirds, and the occasional bluebird duo. I have yet to see the fox this trip, which has me wondering, given its bold behavior a week ago, whether it was sent by Maria — I found out she had died a day after it radiantly stood atop our railing, staring in at me.

The Amish rocking chairs are elegantly simplistic, yet they are so masterfully hewn that I know as I slide into one that it will have realigned my nerves, bones and tissue in little time at all.

This is the most beautiful land in the world, as far as I’m concerned, despite the burned corpses of trees that still rise on the hill before us. I liken the dead pines to us old timers, standing guard over the new growth — the new life that will come after. When the young trees grow strong enough, we scalded husks can fall aside, to the earth, into compost, and finish the mission of our life cycle.

I sigh, half contented, half puzzled. While I’m deeply appreciative that we’re here, I’m also a bit befuddled.

Can I hold onto the memories of how I got here? I think that’s the least I can do now that we no longer struggle with finances. I don’t want to just appreciate, I want to recall that feeling of fear, that uncertainty and the shame … but despite remembering it, I just don’t feel it. How can that be?

The terror of an impending check bouncing, one we would write for diapers, knowing full well there weren’t enough funds in the bank to cover it. The prayers, the overdraft fees. Power and water shutoff notices on the door. Missed oil changes, asking God to hold the car together so it didn’t crap out on I-25. Scraping up a deductible to take sick babies to the doctor.

But, like physical pain, I can’t recall it; I can’t make it come back to me; to relish in the hopelessness in an effort to honor what we’ve gone through and, maybe even more so, what so many other people are still going through.

How does that work, God?

We’re helping, of course, we are. My empathy is high, but I just can’t seem to remember how I myself felt in our situation. On some spiritual level, did I know I’d reach this point? Nah. I was actually perfectly happy when we got to where we could cover our bills and still help others.

This is something else. While we greatly appreciate this gift, thanking God every day, we also understand the responsibility He has given us. The Earth is so incredible, a miracle, and this is our allotted spot not to own, but to steward.

Sure, I’ve learned that more expensive, high-quality wooden rocking chairs actually are worth the money — an investment vs. something to get us by. I’ve learned that our life when in town — albeit hellish oftentimes — has great value and importance to the future of society as we care for five grieving grandchildren. Once, I supported communities in my writing career; now I’m serving a mission closer to home. The former was much easier, and the latter will take years to succeed.

I’ve learned to wait and watch. What next, God? Show us! We’re looking and listening!

And, yes, safe cars and legacy furniture are where my luxury investments end. Unsurprisingly, nobody is going to accuse me of spending much money on clothes — although we are moving toward all-natural fabrics. And I suppose I should and will purchase the shoes that will help my feet, despite their $150 price tag.

I still roll my eyes thinking of the 12 years I worked among the wealthy and the wannabes in thousand-plus dollar suits. Below that top floor, this organization had incredible doctors and residents who were on the streets washing the feet of the homeless, helping end opioid addiction in the rural communities, standing up for neighborhoods with little to no resources . . . all while rich ‘businessmen’ types cavorted about the highest office, impressing only each other and kidding themselves that they were special.

Watering the spruce and the aspens as far as the hose will reach, I chuckle to myself. That’s a lifetime ago. Now, the robins are playing in the mist, the chipmunks are avoiding it like fire, and we’re all praying for rain. We have just enough resources to help the land and the people in need, but ultimately, it’s not about — or even up to — us, is it? We’ll do all we can, but Nature — God — is in control. Life’s greatest treasure is the land, and the land needs rain . . . and a lot more enlightenment.