Sunday, November 22, 2009

Death Leaves an Inheritance






Standing at kin’s kitchen sink gazing through tiny window of double wide across a broken shell road looking at where my granny used to make life, it seemed faded, ancient, and removed. Did I not believe that this day would come? Or did I know and yet deny in my heart that this dieing would take place? Such a small restricted frame to look though when remembering such long full life, so I run to the front yard, tears streaking, maneuvering through cousins, past uncle and niece, desperate for a lager picture wearily feeling through the great and great great grand children of time and life lived in these pine stands and I look up at the Salt and Slash, and the sweet gum and loblolly whisper as the breeze floats in,

each chattering in their own vernacular. They know my name the trees and the generations but do I remember theirs. They crowd around intimidating towering and cluttering the view of Granny’s life, or so I would think for the moment. There is no big sky here just big pine and cypress and a quiet that waxes nostalgic, deep, inescapable a sudden and significant silence that enables hearing the important. and I hear the Masters voice in the upland pine and beneath the shady stands of the hardwood hammocks. The long leaf pines with their extended fingers directing my gaze heavenward to the life that those long straight fingers hold, brown pronged eggs of future pines. Learned and discerning pines and hardwoods sway in union purposefully so that I can see through the fearsome crowding and remember that unless one of these sharp cones falls to the ground and die it can not live. Its hard prickly outer shell is but the vehicle for an inheritance of future shade and refuge to those who will live in it’s shadow, Do I live in her shadow? and I know that this act this agricultural principal is a fact of life, that unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies it will remain only a single kernel, alone and ineffective, producing nothing. The Masters voice still in silence talking and soothing my sadness over a death, says dieing in order to live defies logic of this time and world but this old long lived woman died to frivolous material possessions and self guided living and all the fine tinkling's of this world so that she could produce quality crops, a genealogical stalk of wheat with multiple seeds who produced after her kind. A sea of southern faces flood my mind and I can see their weather worn hands welcoming even me a half indigenous who grows differently than they do. It is true that I know a different forest but, it‘s the same sun/son that gives light and although I have been transplanted in a geographically different forest I am from the same soil and stock as she. A giving up of self and a bearing of a cross was her way many crosses over miles of forest and bay and years and skies and pines and blackness of southern sand, not loving her life but Christ’s and ours, from her self death many of us have collected that inheritance of dieing and serving Jesus and others, many in our line are still to collect. And He says one more time so that I might be encouraged, "She was a living example of my truth", and I remind myself not to overlook the Master’s work in the midst of sadness, remembering that she was a vehicle of death unto life and serving others first; I smile with hope.

Oh father make me the careful wise gardener that she was. Ready to die so that you would live in me, self death that others might be served, that among the pines and genealogy of names that I cant always remember make me a vehicle of life giving death that you might reign in me and be glorified at my end, help me to example the inheritance of life that you yourself first gave for me, so that I may produce a new stalk with much seed and a forest of great soul beauty within myself and in those who come after me.







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