December 3

The First Week in Advent

 

It was mild, for December, and there were plenty of little jobs left undone from our fall clean-up.   Haul the lawnmower into the shed.   Rake the flowerbeds by the front steps.  Get the clippers out as weapon against the scraggly bittersweet vines and sumac forcing its way among the roses.   Pick up the branches scattered in the driveway from the last storm.     Carry Halloween's mushy pumpkins, with their grotesque sunken faces, out to the compost pile. 

And then there was the mess of our  garden, still untended after the killing frosts.   I poked through the weeds, the dead vines, and the rattling pods of beans left unpicked before their untimely demise.  Carcasses of a few rotten tomatoes lay bloated where they had fallen, and skeletons of sunflowers and marigolds, once tall and bright, swayed ghost-like in the breeze.   Some parsley was still hanging on; and a little Swiss chard, its smallest, lowest leaves purple and green, seemed to smile at me, defying winter.   Nearby I stick a shovel into the now-empty row where I had planted beets in the Spring, and underneath the frozen crust was the day's treasure:  a handful of Detroit Reds, a gift for dinner.    

 This is what we have to do to when we despair of this broken world of ours.   Dig deep, when it seems like there is nothing for us but remnants of another season.   Dig deep, when we see no redeeming grace in the people we encounter.   Dig deep, even when we despair about ourselves.   Look for what may be growing where nobody can see it.    That's an Advent task for sure.

 

Beets in December

The garden is in ruins

Desolated by a late November freeze
Which took everything that was left,
except for a brave patch of parsley,
something like the old Yankees
who once tilled this soil,
too stubborn to give up.
But I stick a spade into the dirt,
among the debris of blackened vegetation,
and I find life:
roots, blood-red as hearts,
beets planted once on an April day.
We will roast them for dinner,
savor this unexpected sweetness,
give thanks to you, Lord,
for such surprises secreted away,
blood-red and blessed.
Teach us this truth,
amid the ruins and desolation:
Sometimes the treasure is where it can't be seen,
Hidden in the frozen earth.
You have to dig for it.

--Timothy Haut, December 3, 2013