On my belly, eye-level with thistles, there’s no sign of asparagus emerging. But this will change as the days lengthen and the rains come. For decades, I’ve made compelling requests of this ancient asparagus patch, and it has done what it can to save me. This has less to do with faith than with remembering and waiting. There are forces at work; we are at their mercy.
Waiting for Bats
Some years ago, on Father’s Day, we hung a double-chamber bat house on the warm side of our home. So far, no bats have moved in. We had hoped that they would take up residence and eat mosquitoes. Instead, a pair of robins have built a nest on top of the box, and their droppings trail down the side of the darkly stained cedar.
Waiting for Redemption
An ominous enlightenment is stirring offstage. Twice, it has missed its cue. It is an enraged bull, pawing the ground, spewing snot and indignation. It is a rusting toy. It doesn’t like its assigned role. It wants to rewrite the script.
Waiting for the Answer
This morning, I texted The Gods three times, begging for alternatives, biting back tirades and justifications. Silence is the hardest answer to accept. I left an offering at the edge of a slash pile and imagined the thick smoke bellowing skyward, hiding their thin defenses.
Waiting for the Raucous Conclusion
There are animals, wild and otherwise, who will outlive me, but there are others who will not. In fact, I will eat some before this day is done. If I were a hunter, I would make sure I had a clean shot. Then I would give thanks, waving one hand over the lifeless body, raising the other in gratitude. Hand to mouth. Heart to ashes. Dust to dust.
Short visits with an honest God 