Spring at Claret Farm.  So much has happened since last spring, which was our first spring on the farm.  The most significant event, in every sense of the word, was the death and birth of our son.  In that order.  While most of our friends and family heard the story, I still encounter acquaintances who have not heard his story, so I will share it again.  Since I have written his complete birth story elsewhere, I will simply write a summary.

On Easter Sunday of last year, God blessed Christopher and me with another pregnancy.  Since my previous pregnancy was high risk, and we had not intended to have another baby due to the likelihood of a repeat of the original condition, I was shocked and honestly very afraid not only for myself but for our new child.  Yet I resolved to be as healthy as possible, and took very good care of myself.

Unknowingly, due to circumstances entirely out of my control, my son's placenta developed with a rare defect that resulted in some of the blood vessels being exposed rather than protected by the umbilical cord or the placenta.  Unfortunately, this type of defect is only detectable with a type of ultrasound that is not commonly used during prenatal care, so the defect went undiagnosed.  Although this placental abnormality put him in constant danger, especially during birth; miraculously, he was safeguarded throughout the pregnancy and up until the very last moments.  Sometime during the last few minutes before birth, his life-giving oxygen supply was cut off, and his heart stopped.  After his body was born, he did not attempt to breathe.  Through the rapid response of our midwives, and the grace of God, he was revived after fifteen minutes of resuscitation.  He spent fifteen days recovering in the NICU.  He is doing marvelously and is a happy and healthy baby boy!

Today we begin Holy Week.  I am reminded of Jesus' words: "Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed.  But if it dies, it produces many seeds."  (John 12:24)  Of course Jesus was speaking of His own death and resurrection.  Yet He was also speaking to us, His followers.  We want a cheap harvest.  We want the best of everything without paying anything.  We want wealth without work, pleasure without pain, joy without suffering, eternal life without death.

But Jesus taught us that when we are unwilling to sow, to sacrifice our best, we will not harvest.  In order to yield something worthy of harvesting, something has to die.  To grow in love, sacrifice is required--sacrifices of my time, my schedule, my priorities, my strength, my heart, my hopes and dreams, perhaps even my very life.

For reasons only God knows, to become his mother, my son had to die.  On that sunny December day, on the winter solstice, at noon, God took his spirit.  And then He gave it back.  My head is baffled, and my heart is grateful to the point of tears.  My son's body was the seed that fell lifeless into the fertile ground.  The harvest is still to come.

Dusk in the summer on Claret Farm holds manifold delights and lessons for those outside, as the sun falls into the west.  The observant farmer might catch mist wending upward from the pond to the darkening sky.  On another evening, the quiet farmer, like an interloper, catches the eye of a stock still deer in the orchard, defiant at being caught among the young green apples.  Still another evening, the tired farmer, who is also a Dad (who is also me) finds his feet locked to the ground as the magic waving parade of fireflies rises from the fields and entrances him.

On that evening, marveling at those fireflies, I think, “My kids have got to see this!”

Dashing back into the house, I bound up the stairs two steps at a time, calling to my children already abed.  “Wanna catch some fireflies?” I pleadingly ask.  Pajama clad, four of my children follow me into the dark evening for a nocturnal adventure.

Among the winking yellow fireflies, my ears took in each squeal and exclamation from my children as they chased and reached for the elusive bugs.  One joyful daughter, quick in mind, soon ran to the barn and brought back an empty glass jar.  With the sudden appearance of a place to keep the fireflies, my children dash after and reach for the fireflies with greater vigor.  Firefly gathering, however, proved difficult and discouraging to my children.  Lest the adventure sour, I gave gentle encouragement and pointed out that the fireflies are more easily caught when sitting on blades of grass.  “Look for the firefly lights that aren’t floating through the air, for the lights that are not moving--on the grass!”  That advice did the trick and I listened knowingly to the pride in their voices as they showed me the winking bugs they’d placed in the glass jar.  It was one nocturnal adventure for which bedtime was best ignored and one, I reflected, that wouldn’t have happened without their Dad.

--Chris