Letters from the Farm - 1

(I wrote this letter on a yellow legal pad and mailed it to my friend in England last year. I sent it to my good friend, Melissa, in the hopes of making her laugh. It was probably just confusing.)

12/6/12

Dearest Melissa,

I write to you at this first week of December with thoughts of you, Christmas, and the coming winter months. Thoughtful of the famine, it is likely the farm will suffer heavily this season of freeze. Though I am no stranger to hunger, this year will be a tough challenge nonetheless. If the farm doth freeze, I will be forced to sell, only hoping to find a reasonable purchaser, who lacks that vulture mentality. Wish me well, good woman, for this winter may undo me.

In less gloomful news, I was wandering through some less traveled – nay, uncharted – land when I came across, bubbling out of the ground like a spring of water, some thick, black liquid. I cannot say what it is or what it could possibly be used for, but I shall trek into town tomorrow eve and inquire upon the noble and knowledgeable lawyer, who will undoubtedly inform me of the uselessness of my inquiries.

Otherwise, the neighbors’ 2-headed calf finally died. Moo-Moo gave a good fight but could not overcome her genetic shortcomings. I suppose the old mantra holds true: “Having two heads is too much for just one heart.”

Separately, my small farmhouse has fallen victim to raccoons. Though cute, they are unbelievable destructive. I should have been alarmed when they occupied the outhouse. I began to worry when the porch became a hostile place to transverse, but finally grasped the fatality of the situation when my bed began to be a nest for newly born raccoon cubs. But alas, I have sharpened my machete and will begin work on my bamboo raccoon traps this eve. (Machetes are so useful.)

Alas, I nearly forgot; last Wednesday I fought and defeated a wolf. He was very large and I could see my death in his eyes. He leapt on me and nearly had me but for my quick reflexes. I nimbly strafed to my left, nearly losing my footing in the deep snow. His first unsuccessful move left him vulnerable to my left hook that I delivered with authority directly to the beast’s wet nose. Hardly a whimper was out before he charged back and grasped my arm in his vicious jaws. We struggled so closely; I saw his gray eyes and felt his hot breath on me. But as he snapped to earn a better grip, I swung around, slid my bleeding arm under his chin, and locked it there with the other arm. In those long but hopeful moments I could only think of you and what a beautiful coat you could be wrapped in if I managed to slay this animal. He was a beautiful white wolf with wonderful, dark gray markings to match those eyes and, though I hardly felt compelled to compliment my attacker, if I had to, it would have been regarding the softness of his royal fur. So it is with tremendous sadness that I tell you I do not possess this fur. For in his last remaining amount of oxygen, I heard an old owl hoot so profoundly that it drew my attention. Looking into his huge eyes, it was clear to me I was not to end the life of this carnivorous canine. And so I released him, and he darted away. My wound revealed to be quite minor, in fact, so I returned home and threw up. And every so often, but only at dusk, whilst walking I find nearby wolf tracks and simultaneously, though I cannot say whether far off or simply within my mind, I hear in the wind the hoot of an owl, who protects his brother animals in this severe earth.

But you must be bored of these mundane stories by now. I bid you a merry goodbye and wish wonderful happiness to you! May your coat keep you warm and the great Owl protect you!

Keep Warm & Ever Hopeful,
Watchful of the Seasons,
Affectionately,

J.L.Harrison

Twins, Summers, and Resurrection

Summer is coming! It's true, it's only March, but it's (mostly) warm and sunny and there's no looking back! Before adulthood, summer was easily the best time of the year. No school; what more could you ask for? Besides chores, my sunny seasons were spent riding bikes, playing basketball, and hanging out with friends. But after I finished school and entered Youth With A Mission, moving to Alberta, Canada, the summers merely meant that the sun would still be in the sky after work was over, as opposed to seeing stars come out at 5 pm. But besides work, the June, July, and August months meant occasionally visiting good ol' California to see my family.

Now, I have a twin sister. Before you ask, we are indeed identical twins, both in facial appearance and height. Yes, throughout our lives, most people can't tell who was James and who was Julie. It led to all kinds of problems. Julie would dress like me and get into all kinds of trouble, and the next thing I knew, I was being punished! It was tragic. But as adults, we've reconciled our conflicts and get along just fine. Mostly.

Joking aside, one thing about my twin is this: she is summer. She embodies it, from her bubbly personality that cannot be eclipsed to her shining face filled with excitement. If you're around her, you know what she's feeling. If she's happy and laughing, you will be too! The sun is a ball of light and energy, never ceasing. And my sister is just as hard to shadow if she has set her mind to something. Once when we were seven, Julie got a hold of some flower seeds and started digging a hole. When I found her she was reading the bag of seeds and asked me what 6" meant. Intelligently, I told her, "It means six feet." She said, "How big is that?" "Julie, you'll have to dig for as tall as Jacob!" Sitting in the dirt with her wild, brown curly hair, she thought for a moment, then said, "Okay," and went back to it with the shovel.

She is persistent, loving, and full of life. Like the sun. Like summertime, that time of year I'm accustomed to seeing her. So when I think of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, I think of a special time of the year, lasting the entire year! Seasons disappear and it's summer all year around. The atmosphere is energetic and life is the air we breathe. Our Creator is persistent to plant seeds that don't stop growing, and he will never withhold his Spirit that waters us each day, until the sun stops shining.

Hold Fast

Hebrews 4:14-16
"Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need."

Though this passage seems very nice, it doesn't make any sense! Jesus, the Son of God, tempted in every respect that we are, still did not sin. Therefore, we, who have sinned, can find his help in our time of need.

Honestly, I do not get it. I'm not trying to set up a literary turn where it does make sense in the end - I actually don't see the connection. Because Christ did what we couldn't, we can find grace and understanding when we're needy? Maybe you get it, and in time I might, too. But for now, I'll simply take it.

So it is not with knowledge and understanding that I conclude, but with gratitude: God is an awesome God for extending grace, his very throne of grace, to us, sympathizing with our weakness and saying something like, "I know... it's okay." He is awesome because he was victorious and, though we are not, he still champions us and elevates us to be more like him, to be what we can't.

Now I draw near to this throne of grace with confidence, receiving mercy and grace in my time of need, and saying something like, "Okay... Thank you. Again." And I hold fast to my confession.

Letting Go

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep...that have taken hold." -Frodo

I love Frodo so much. If he wasn't your favorite in the "Lord of the Rings" movies, give him a chance in the books. He is valiant. He accepts his role. He is selfless, and he is lovable.  He lets go of the Shire, not once but twice!

I've said some tearful goodbyes in the last few years, and I've left some wonderful people. The reason those goodbyes were so tearful, and why leaving was so heartbreaking, was because those friends were so good, so wonderful! I wouldn't feel this way if I only knew jerks! But I am so grateful to know such quality people from different states, different countries. They point me to beauty.

And that's what we're looking for. There was a time where I didn't see a beautiful sunrise or sunset for months. The weather just wasn't right. But I didn't need those, because I had beautiful friends who cared for me, who insisted on the truth about me, and who were persistent to point out the good. We all need to witness beauty to be whole, and I am rich with what I've seen.

After experiencing these things, plus forgiveness and such satisfying redemption, I see the Father at work. Here and everywhere! And if that's true, then letting go isn't always easier, but it's possible. Because what we're letting go of is beauty, and that can be found Everywhere.

Frodo left a lot of things and people, but what he came to was a far country of white, sandy beaches, the City-Upon-a-Hill, the Timeless Shores... There's more beauty where we're afraid to find it.

Change, Never-change

Goodness, this is long. But it's a reflective thing, so more for me than for you. So consider this a journal entry that I'm letting you read, haha! Understand, and please enjoy.

A lamp has a power cord. To move the lamp, you must unplug the power cord, relocate the lamp, and plug the power cord into another outlet. Simply unplug, move, plug. Quite simple. The lamp is still a lamp, but it's in a new place. Now, different things are happening all around the lamp, but it's still doing its job, while all it sees and hears is new and changed.

I lived in Canada for three years; 2 and a half years in a small foothills town in Alberta and half a year in the city of Vancouver. Those were very different environments - in two different provinces, even. One of them showed me a deer every day, beautiful stars, dangerous storms, and a slow, quiet life. The other presented a fast-paced, people-filled society boasting convenience and low prices within a lock-your-doors atmosphere. Though they were both truly beautiful, they were quite different. In fact, every Canadian was different; some wore cowboy hats and donned mustaches, and some owned bakeries while others made millions for the oil industry. And they all were different from me.

Less than three weeks ago I was unplugged, relocated, and plugged in again; a lamp moved not just across the room, but into another house! Yes, I am still James, but I'm in a totally different place. Different things are happening all around me. All the faces are different. The voices are different. The colors, smells, sky, and air moisture are all different. Even I am changed! Yes, I've lived here before, but I'm older. At this point in my young life, it amounts to being much older. And for some reason, that means a lot to me.

I know my surroundings are different and can't possibly satisfy my urge to recognize my experiences. There is no way to tell all the stories of who and what my light was cast upon, and no one would want to hear all of them anyway! And that's okay. That's normal! To expect more would be unfair.

Now if I understand the struggle of moving and the confusion of all things changed, why do I shudder at times? Why do I ignore feelings until they ambush me with storm clouds? Why do I desperately wish for someone with which to open up, while I fear the idea of opening up at all? I want a friend but push them away. It was never like this before... Good Lord, why?

Grief. I lost something very precious to me. I lost a community, a job, a bedroom, a level of comfort, a style of humor, a list of inside jokes, a system of meals, and a group of fine people who called me friend; who loved me more than I realized till those last few days. All of that gone, and I'm left here in American with jokes about "snow" and "eh" and "a-boot." Good gravy! It was so much more than that.

I became a man there, and I returned to be told that I need to put shoes on before I leave the house! I know! For Pete's sake, I know.

So here I am - new and fresh but scared, experienced but nervous, a man now a man, deathly afraid of being treated like a boy. But I am James, and I am loved, and there are some things that never change.

Still a Tree

You shouldn't be dramatic so

You shouldn't slow the traffic flow

Or frantically wave a flag so white

Ov'r a clean ship healthy at first sight

A ship is first a tree, you know?

And trees ne'er live without a touch of woe

Hardships endured, but thickened bark

Can't stop the wind of deathly stark

The fall of one so great and old

Must sound much like a smash so bold

And splashing into the flowing clear

Like rocks on rocks or thunder near

The river runs swift and blind

Past an old, stuck log refusing to wind

In time it will falter and fall

Jetsam dragged, forgotten by all 

But though the log is tall and wide 

It's still a tree, deep inside

And though the tree is dead and gone

It's still a tree, thick and strong

So because the roots must stay back

The support has now been all but sapped

Those precious nutrients so far away

Getting further and further every day

Perhaps before the log shakes loose

It will find a similar log or two

And form a little dam their own

And firmly stand, to brave the Unknown.

What's the object of the game?

This poem is fictional. But it does relate to this: when something seems wrong, but right at the same time. So you trust it, enough to give it a shot, even when you sense it's leading into a trap. Perhaps it's a wrong motivation, or a dream you're following that someone else dreamt. Beware!

I don't even know your name
And if I did I'd feel the same
I never learned to play this game
But if you teach, I'll try to play.

Look alive, it's time to shine
See if you can't take what's mine
Tie your string and pull my line
With silky words and a smile wide.

But then again, not you but me
Tied that string and hung it free
Yeah it's locked, but here's the key
For any fool to take and keep.

A key that leads to open flesh
Raw and pulsing, my open chest
Covered by no bandaged mesh
No hair or skin or bone protects.

If you ask it, I will gift
That key that leads to captive shift
And walk into deceiving lift
And headfirst ascend through blackened rift.