Nature – Page 4 – sethlewis.ie

Fallow (a poem)

Today’s poem is inspired by some fields that I walk past regularly, which are lying fallow this time of year. I’ve felt that way, too.

Fallow

The harvester’s tyres
Left tracks on the ground
In the cold empty earth
Broken stalks all I found
To remember the days
When I used to walk by
When the soil was full
When the harvest was high

As I look at it now
It all seems so forlorn
So naked and useless
I’m tempted to mourn
Until I remember
The promise of spring
It’s not dead—it’s waiting
To rise up again

And I’ve felt the plough blades
On my back as well
And I’ve been left waiting
When everything fell
And I’ve seen what God
In his wisdom can grow
Out of cold empty hearts
With the seed that he sows

A Personal Update (With A Book Update, Too)

I woke up the other day thinking about the list of normal things I was going to do that day, which is not unusual. But it struck me that I’ve been waking up like that for years and years, and the list of normal things I’ve thought about has changed dramatically. For example, recently I’ve been taking our oldest child out to practice driving. This is normal now, but it wasn’t a year ago, and it’s a sign that our family is entering another new and different kind of normal. Next year our youngest will join her brothers in secondary school and our normal will change again.

Rain On The Window (a poem)

The garden is
A liquid blur
But I don’t stir
To close the blinds
The world has turned
Impressionistic—
Like a sad
(But still artistic)
Painter came
And just remixed it
Smudged the lines
And drained the colour
Told the sun
He shouldn’t bother
Wiped the sky
And stars away
And left me only
Endless grey
And as I look
Outside I think
That even when
It’s indistinct
And even when
It blurs my thoughts
And when it rains
And drains
And blots
And even when
It breaks my heart
This world is still
A work of art

What Does God Listen For?

Have you ever considered all the things you hear in the course of one day? This morning, I heard birds singing outside, and the voices of my family. I heard the coffee machine and the clink of plates and cutlery at breakfast. Right now, I’m hearing the noise of construction above the ever-present sounds of traffic and the occasional gust of wind. I haven’t even had lunch yet. There will be plenty more to fill my ears before this day is finished.

Have you ever considered all the things that God hears? The creator of sound waves hears the unceasing worship of angels before his throne. He hears the swirling wind of Jupiter and the ice that melts on Mars. He hears beyond what is audible to us—the ultrasonic songs of katydids and the footsteps of aphids. He hears beyond the limits of location—every rain drop, every lightning bolt, every asteroid, every pinging dolphin and rumbling tectonic shift, everywhere, all the time. And I thought I had a lot to take in.

A Sycamore Tree, A Car Crash, And God’s Provision

In Luke 19, a short tax-collector named Zacchaeus climbed a sycamore tree to see Jesus as he passed through the crowd. He did see Jesus. Even better, Jesus saw him. Then Jesus stopped and spoke to him, and went to his home for dinner, and Zacchaeus was never the same from that day on. I’ve heard this story since I was a child, but I’d never thought too much about the sycamore tree itself until my friend Brian directed my attention to it. Did you know that sycamore trees in Israel can live for hundreds of years? And the one Zacchaeus climbed must have been fully mature if it was big enough to hold a grown man (a short man, granted) and allow him to see above other people’s heads. To be there for that particular moment of need, that tree must have been growing for decades, at least, and possibly longer.

The Maker (a poem)

A long time ago the prophet Jeremiah said, “Ah, Sovereign Lord, you have made the heavens and the earth by your great power and outstretched arm. Nothing is too hard for you.” I’m not a prophet, but today I have a poem for you on the same theme:

The Maker

He stretched out the heavens
And lit up the stars
He flung out the Milky Way’s
Spiralling arms
And will we imagine
His own arms are weak?
Or fear there’s an enemy
He can’t defeat?
The Maker of rocks is
More firm and secure
Than Everest’s foundations
More perfectly pure
Than water in Eden
More faithful and sure
Than sunrise and twilight
And he will endure
Past all of the ancient
Immovable hills
The hills he abundantly
Graciously fills
With life—in all of its
Wild variety
Antlers and feathers
And berries and trees—
And will we belittle
The Maker of these?
Or think the inventor
Of eyes doesn’t see?
Or somehow,
Ridiculously,
Disbelieve
That what he has promised
Is what he’ll achieve

The Crooked Apple Tree

Beside a country road in Ireland there are two tall pillars marking the entrance to my friend’s home, down a lane that used to lead to a massive manor house. That mansion is long gone, but the stately pillars remain as crumbling reminders of its past glories. The gravel lane between them now winds its way to the old farm buildings on the estate, which were nothing but ruined walls until my friend rebuilt them into a home. Outside, the chickens wander freely with the dogs among the garden beds and fruit trees.

A Personal Update

It’s been almost a year since I shared a personal update on the blog, and life has been moving along. It’s never boring!

Our children recently turned seventeen, fifteen, and twelve, and Jessica and I celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary this year as well. I feel like our family has moved decisively into a new stage of life—a middle stage, I suppose—and I have to say that I honestly love it. I have loved the other stages, too, each in their own way, each with their own challenges and joys. I think the stage we’re in now is my favourite so far, though. It has its own unique challenges, but I do love seeing our children grow and mature, and being able to relate to them on a grown-up level. I also love the stability and depth of a romance with two decades of shared life experience under it. We still disagree and argue, of course, but we’re a little better at it, I think, and quicker to forgive.

Outrunning The Rain

Living in Ireland, I’ve gotten used to the rain taking its own sweet time. It softly falls for days or weeks on end, completely oblivious to how egregiously it has overstayed its welcome. In Alabama, where I grew up, things are different. The rain there waits and builds up and waits some more and then suddenly bursts out of the clouds in a mad rush to pelt the ground all at once with all the drama and thunder and sky-splitting electricity it can muster (and sometimes tornadoes).

Pruning (a poem)

Everything grows fast in the garden this time of year. The rose stems stretch themselves upward, then droop with the weight of their own blooms. The grape vine climbs the arbour, blindly grasping anything it can hold on to. The weeds come back, and come back again, from somewhere, everywhere, while the vines on the back wall grow in every direction at once. All of this growth is a beautiful, abundant gift, yet I know that if I leave it untended for too long, my garden will eventually become something else entirely. The strawberries will send runners into the grass, the grass will colonise the herb bed, the weeds will colonise the grass, and the roses will block the path with thorns. The longer I leave it alone, the harder I’ll have to work to reclaim it. And here, in the wild tendencies of my garden, I see a reflection of myself. That’s what this poem is about: