Dandelions and Daydreams

My last post was a bit of a hot-headed rant.  I do that sometimes, but I’ve been thinking about the whole recycling/going green thing a lot lately.  Yesterday, Melissa at The Living Proof Ministries Blog wrote an article about Christianity and going green.   Check over there to read the whole post, but her three main points were:

1. God reveals himself through creation, so in a way we are surpressing the glory of God when we trash the Earth.
2. God gave man the job to care for the Earth, and everything we do should be for the glory of God.
3. The Earth will eventually burn up and be recreated.  Nothing we can do can end the groaning of the earth, but when we work to protect the earth, we are joining God in a work that He will eventually perfect with a new Heaven and a new Earth.

As a Christian, I have to be cautious to worship the Creator rather than the created, but I would be foolish to say that I cannot care for the created.  If I were to ignore the created because I was worried about failing to worship the Creator, then I would also have to ignore my own body.  I would neglect to care for all the earthly blessings that the Lord has given to me.  I would be so Heavenly minded as to be of no use to this earth.  I would be rendered ineffective as a light because my focus would be on worshiping the Creator and ignoring the created.  The ultimate purpose of a human is to bring glory to God, but we have to do that in the context of where God has put us to live.

On the flip side, if we choose not to be a good steward of our life, we will have to live with the consequences of that choice.  I’m not talking about losing salvation here, I’m talking about natural consequences.  If I go out and spend our family deeply into debt, we will have to live with the stress and burden of that debt.  If I create excess waste and turn the whole world into a landfill to satisfy my own consumer needs, then I (or my children) will have to live on a trashed planet; I will be guilty of neglecting and ignoring the blessings of the Lord.

I keep having all these crazy cravings for food that I thought I hated.  Most notably, Avocados and Tomatoes.

I thought I hated avocados, but I think my love affair started at a Cinco De Mayo party this year.  It was the bean dip, the only thing I could eat at the party without feeling sick.  I haven’t been able to get enough avocado since then.  I buy them every time I go shopping.  I have avocado chunks in every salad I make.  Avocado on a turkey(real turkey meat, not deli meat) and tomato sandwich is heavenly.

Which brings me to my next point.  Why did I start craving tomatoes after (and only after) the salmonella scare?  I was holding off until I was certain the store tomatoes are save (mostly shipped from California).  Now that California tomatoes are cleared as safe, I may have to give in to my cherry tomato craving.  I don’t like tomatoes.  I have never liked tomatoes.  The things I am doing for this baby.

My how the government has changed its tune.

Our Sunday afternoon walk took us down to the shoals–my own personal water park.

My family first discovered the shoals when I was about five. We had started building my parents house. It was summer and it was stinking hot. Our house was just a concrete slab with cinder walls slowly going up. Air conditioner was still a long ways off. Many hot afternoons were spent playing in these waters.

On the far side of the creek, the current was faster. There was a groove cut in the rock that made a splendid water slide. A mountain laurel branch hung low over the water at the bottom of the slide. You had to lay back to slide under it or risk getting a face full of branches and leaves.

I had a deep fear of this rock when I was a kid–or rather what might be lurking under the rock. That was the “deep end” of the pool beneath the shoals. It was probably 2 1/2 or 3 feet deep at its deepest, and I was sure an alligator lived under that rock.

I’m sure the idea was originally planted by my brother. My fear of that rock continued on long after I knew that alligators didn’t live in North Georgia. Then I was certain that there would be a copperhead or a water moccasin laying in wait for me there should I venture into the deep end of the pool.

The water is only a couple of inches deep there now, but that rock still seems menacing. I’m sure I would still avoid splashing near it if I were to swim in the shoals now.

Down stream, the neighbors had built a zip line across the creek using a cable and some old bicycle handlebars. When the spring rains came, the normally quiet, placid creek would turn into a raging, rolling monster. We would have our annual wake-boarding event taking advantage of the high waters and fast current. We tied an old ski rope off to one of the trees along the banks and take turns wake-boarding in the rushing waters. It was quite a thrill, but if you ever fell off, you might have to walk a mile down stream to retrieve the wake-board.

Every good water park has souvenirs that you can take home with you, and ours was no exception.  Rather than overpriced plastic and funny hats, we had to go hunt for our souvenirs, but they were free.

Heavy rains would churn up bits of broken pottery, remains of the time when the Cherokee Indians camped along the banks of Rock Creek every summer.

My brother, Jesse, was the one who had a natural talent for finding Indian pottery.  He would be wading along picking up rocks and skipping them when he would say, “look at this piece of pottery.”  The secret to finding pottery is not to look for it.

At the end of the day, we would stuff our pockets with pottery and rocks and hike the mile or so back up to our house (building site).  Years later, we have buckets of quartz rocks picked up on hikes down to the shoals, and quite a bit of pottery reminding us of summer afternoons in Rock Creek.

I slipped into my assigned seat and buckled my seat belt. The day was still young and flight 766 out of Spokane would be leaving the ground in the midst of snowflakes and thick fog. I sat back in my seat to catch a nap while waiting for takeoff. When my plane finally landed in Atlanta many hours later, I picked up my baggage and waited for Mom and Dad to pick me up.

The transformation overtook me when Mom got out of the truck and gave me a big “Welcome Home” hug. No matter how old I get, whenever I come home to mom, I’m just her little girl who needs to be taken care of. Likewise, no matter how big her babies are, Mom always switches back into “mom mode” when we are home.

This is probably a universal thing. It’s why whenever grandma came to visit she spent her time washing clothes and mating socks. Mothers are always mothers and children are always children.

I confess that since Brenton is still in Idaho for the week, I am quite content with the idea of being a little kid for the week. I can chase butterflies and hike to all my childhood haunts. The daffodils are blooming here. This has always been my favorite time of year.