On Being Brave, Becoming a Slave, and the Economics of Honeysuckle

“When I was little, I used to wake up every morning and look outside the window to see if a horse was there.”

It was four in the morning, and Dad was sitting on my bed, which is in the sunroom off of the kitchen. He had three cups of coffee in him and was ready to go fishing. We have always had a lively relationship, so he enjoys catching me when I’m not a ball of fire, that is, when I am asleep. 

“You think you could use that in your writing?” 

“Sure, Dad.”

And true to my word, there it is. 

There has been a lot going on, so do not assume otherwise when I tell you the highlight of the season has been the hummingbird nest just outside my window. I would never have found it if it weren’t for the bird coming right up to my desk one day and then returning to rest on her nest, just like the robin on the wall of the secret garden. Then there was very little study done in the following weeks for me watching her through the telephoto lens of my camera, as you see.

It is marvelous that I have seen this, and equally marvelous that such things usually go unseen and are not a bit concerned about it. 

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My mama says, when she was little, she invested a lot of time in honeysuckle. I did as well, and the return was substantial. I would say to myself: No need to go in for lunch, I can just eat out here. Then I remember, in all honesty, feeling satisfied. When we grow up, we move on from investing in honeysuckle. It can no longer fill us, and we can’t help that. The return for our new ventures may be less rewarding and sweet, perhaps stolen from us or sullied, perhaps invisible or nonexistent altogether. We may spend years on something and look back to wonder what it even meant. 

Two friends, both artists, have confessed to me this week feeling frustrated and ready to quit, as if their talent was lodged with them useless, that they should just stop and invest in other things, but what they are really feeling, like Gilgamesh of old, is fear of death. I know this well. We see our insignificance now as we never did in the hours we stood beside the fence and harvested nectar with our tongues, oblivious of a ticking clock. But no matter how loved we may become, we cannot make ourselves immortal, and if God is merciful he will let us hit our heads against this time and again, yet we can live as children of God by being brave. Playing it safe is not Divine, Robert Farrar Capon writes in The Supper of the Lamb, a book about living out immortality, in the kitchen of all places.

No matter how much we are forced to lift our eyes from this fragile life, we cannot escape our love for the earth, because it was not meant to be escaped.

Thank you for investing your time here Reader, and I hope, somehow, it may be as honeysuckle. Below are two 300 word pieces of late for you. 


I studied to help my sister through her labors and now, with baby Ruby coming in September, I’m going through the process of becoming a DONA doula. A question I’ve received is, how can you help a woman through something you haven’t experienced? 

This is a good question, but I think it comes with an unhealthy assumption: not that we must resemble one another, but that we must be the same. The word doula means not mother, but slave. What’s necessary for a good slave is willingness to serve and skill in serving, eyes that see the needs, a mind that thinks ahead, knees that quickly bend. A slave and master do not compare, but correspond. It’s humble, sure, but it also requires boldness and initiative, as in my Lord has need of this donkey. A doula may have to stand up to the cranky night-shift nurse. She may have to remind the doctor of the patient’s wishes. She may have to ask the mother-in-law to leave the room. These things require education, tact and diplomacy. On the other end of the line, she may be holding a popsicle, wiping a sweaty brow and supporting a swaying, groaning body with a strength as supernatural as the event itself. And that’s just the thing: Even in the most lowly tasks of a doula, the event itself is cosmic, filling all things mundane to bursting with profound purpose. This is true for all of life, but especially when a life is delivered into the world: a human-being unique from every other in the history of the universe, resembling us, but certainly not the same. Weak, fragile, dependent, the lowest, yet honored above us all. The one everyone wants to see. The valley raised. The one we labored for.

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Three things are too high for me, four I cannot fathom. The notion of infinity, the span of eternity, the sacrifice of the Trinity and the grace given me. 

I was born on August 24th, the day Hurricane Andrew ravaged the east coast. There were twenty-six lives snuffed out that night, yet the labor and delivery floors were packed as the low barometric pressure sent women close to their time rushing through the rain to groan in overflowed hospital halls, blowing out imaginary candles that would not be dimmed. My sister wailed as the balloons were swept away. The fishing report that week read that, despite the lake wind advisory, Captain Dave’s wife reeled in a 7 pound 8 ounce baby girl. 

My testimony is that I can’t remember not knowing Jesus was the Christ. I was baptized as an infant, all beautiful in a white gown, and again as a kid, all sweaty in a t-shirt. When was I saved? At some point in-utero perhaps or before, and also every day since. Sometimes I worry: How much of who I am do I own myself? How much would I believe if it wasn’t for grace? The answer is nothing, none of it. If you’re a Christian, it’s also true of you. No matter what you had to leave home to learn, or search out to find, if you’ve known the friendship of God, it’s by grace through faith: a new birth like the old one in ability and acumen, that no one can say hey look at what I did. And life goes on that way, doesn’t it? Spun out of hell, washed clean and set down to live.

And so I have thought of another high thing, a fifth: the fist that gathers the wind.

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