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You can now find me on: www.blainesjunction.wordpress.com Contains meditations, poetry, haiku, and recipes.

So Long, Dusty

If you have been to Soggy Bottom in the last few years you have probably met Dusty. Dusty is an eight-year-old American Paint horse that was given to me when he was about four. He had just been gelded and to this day still has something of the nightlife in him. When I got him he was halter broke and none too happy about that. He was a biter, personable, curious, and independent. Some might say he is a spirited horse. I am not a horse trainer and contracted with one who got dusty ground broke. I continued to work with him on those basics and getting him saddle broke. Our challenge this year was reigning and I hired a very gifted young horse trainer, Kate, for that purpose. She did amazing work with Dusty and after three weeks I was able to ride him. Dusty is a very curious and mischievous animal. One day I was putting together a hayrack. I had all of the nuts and bolts in a carpenter’s apron, tied behind my back. Bent over, I was ratcheting a nut. Dusty came up behind me, nibbled at the apron strings and pulled them apart. He was also a master at untying knots, including the horseman’s knot that is supposed to be impossible for a horse to undo. Given enough time he could figure out how to get the chains unlatched from the gate. Dusty was deeply attached to our mare, Red, whom we put down this past winter. One day I saw Red splayed out on the pasture. Her right rear leg was perpendicular to her body. I thought she had broken it or at least displaced her hip. I could not get her up and was on my way to the house to call the vet. Dusty watched all of this. After I had walked away he approached Red. Dusty nudged her. He grabbed her by the withers and pulled upward. He was relentless. As the phone was ringing at the veterinarian’s office I saw Red stagger upward with Dusty’s coaching. Soon she was walking normally. But always Dusty wanted more than anything to run with the wind. One day I was mounting him. My left foot was in the stirrup and I was swinging my right leg around when he spooked. He broke right which meant that centrifugal force was working against me, not to mention my center of balance was off. I landed on the ground really hard. The wind was knocked out of me but my first thought was that I had broken my right jaw. I also had some pain behind my right ear. I immediately began checking my jaw and trying to catch my breath. I realized that the pain I felt was the force of the riding helmet jammed into the right side of my head. I also knew that if I had not been wearing a helmet I would have incurred a serious head injury. Kate got Dusty settled down and I remounted. We rode for about an hour. The rule at our house has always been that when a horse throws you, get back on. The next week I was too sore to ride. My whole body was jarred. But I had Kate come anyway and she rode Dusty. One day she came in after about an hour. Her eyes were wide as saucers with a huge smile on her face. She beamed, “I got Dusty to canter and he has a very smooth gallop. If you ever want to sell him, please put me on the top of the list.” She talked about training Dusty for barrel racing. So I thought about that over the weekend and when Kate came for the Monday ride I asked her to talk with me for a few minutes. I offered Dusty to her as a gift. Both of them had fallen in love and she is the kind of rider that Dusty needs. She has the youth and skill that these old bones do not have. She will ride him and both can fly across the plains of Kansas. I have discovered that sometimes we love someone or something best when we let them go. I am not giving up horseback riding. I just need a kinder – gentler mount. See the young gelding gallop across the pasture With no restraint, unaware of any audience, Running for the sheer joy of it. He prances back, throwing his head to and fro, Bucking and snorting With the wild abandon of freedom. Trotting around the other horses, He nips and kicks, faints and dodges, Full of himself because he can; Until the mare whinnies and threatens To expel him from the herd, Every horse’s greatest fear. He settles down, Puffing then gasping the last draw of liberty, Until tomorrow.

Drought and Grace

You have probably heard of SAD - seasonal affective disorder. It is a form of depression that usually occurs during the late fall through winter. It is thought to be related to the loss of sunlight, and "light therapy" is offered as one form of treatment. Symptoms include anxiety, sadness, hopelessness, irritability, restlessness, fatigue, and a general loss of interest in just about everything. I have come up with a new disorder that I call CAD - climatic affective disorder. Like SAD, CAD is fraught with anxiety, a sense of loss, fatigue, and hopelessness. It is the result of too much sunlight, heat, and wind, common across the central plains. I have noticed CAD in many of the people that I work with at the hospital where I am chaplain, but also amongst my parishioners in Newton and Wichita. I certainly feel it when I get into my car after work and the temperature is 111 degrees. The drought has caused many of us to give up on our gardens where we spent so much time roto-tilling, planting, weeding and watering. While the wheat harvest was generally good, corn and soy are virtually destroyed. Stockmen are selling off cattle because they cannot afford hay and corn to feed their animals. I bought hay last year for my horses at $40.00 per round bale. The cheapest I have seen this year is $80.00. Five years ago a 50# sack of horse fee sold for just over $11.00 and now sells for over $16.00. Last year the cost of household groceries rose about 3% and is expected to rise another 3-4% this year. And just last week I read an article that mentioned the desertification of the American plains that began last summer. Is it any wonder that we all feel just a little blue with the creeping feeling that things are just not right in our world. What are we to do? I have noticed that generally speaking most people respond quickly to an emergency. We get focused on what needs to be done when a child is hit by a car or a parent has a heart attack. We don't always respond very well during a catastrophic illness such as cancer or alzheimer's disease. These illnesses sneak up on us, we often do not recognize their progression, and we are slow to respond over time. The challenge for us is to reach deep down into our reserves to strengthen ourselves for the long haul. We must dive into the wells of our deepest being to bring refreshment to people in our homes, workplace, and community. We do not yet fully appreciate the challenges of climate change. We may only now begin to see the subtle shifts that will reshape our lives forever. We may not have the means to reverse or even stop it. We can only live our lives and engage our relationships with grace. Thomas Merton wrote that we must, "Let go of all that seems to suggest getting somewhere, being someone, having a name and a voice, following a policy and directing people in "my" ways. What matters is love."* We may not be able to redirect climate change. We can direct our love and compassion for one another. I do not know of another response that will see us through. We can choose to be bristling heat and wind or the wellspring of hope to each other. (*Thomas Merton, A Book of Hours, Kathleen Deignan, ed. (Notre Dame: Sorin Books, 2007), p. 271

The Gardens of Life

Stewardship is an essential way of life that will determine the future of our bodies, our families, our communities, and our earth. Sadly stewardship has been cheaply assigned to the role of raising money for the operating budget of a church. Or even worse, stewardship means dominating the earth and each other for our own gain. Authentic stewardship is the role and activity that the Creator gave to all human beings for the nurture and care of all, even the smallest of things. Whether we are raising a tomato plant in a pot or farming a thousand acres of wheat we are stewards. The size of the garden does not matter. We are not good stewards if we think we have to have a larger garden to be a trustee. My life has seen many gardens and I have learned that each is meant to prosper. I still believe in vocation, which does not always mean profession. My primary call is to cultivate the gardens of my life that each may flourish. My gardens are like a series of greenhouses arranged like the spokes of a wheel. They have many similarities. They all need sunlight and water. They need protection from insects and disease. Always the question is how do you do that responsibly? Yet each greenhouse is unique and each poses its own challenges. My family is a garden. I am serving two small congregations and each is unique. My work as a hospital chaplain is a prolific garden of hope, skill, disease, and death. Soggy Bottom, where we live, is a garden of vegetables, fruit trees, chickens, horses, and two absurd goats. The primary challenge of the future, for the sustainability of us all, is learning that stewardship means first of all the flourishing of the gardens we have been given. Coincidently these gardens might provide for our families, but stewardship is first focused on how the garden grows. I have faith that if the gardens prosper in our hands we will prosper as well. Prosperity will mean that we have joy in the growing of things, we are at peace with the role of gardener, and we will be thankful for the life that we are given in the garden, however meager or grand. And yes, every garden requires sunlight and water, hoeing and trimming, fertilizing and weeding. Whether it is the local church, the hospital, my family, or my vegetable garden I must consistently water, shovel manure, thin the rows, and figure out how to manage weeds and insects. My suspicion is that these same issues confronted Adam and Eve in paradise long before they got the boot. It was only in the state of self-consciousness and alienation that they decided this was unfair labor on the other side of Eden. May your zucchinis be long and green, your tomatoes vine ripened, you children strengthened, your work abundant, and your hearts be satisfied.

Crop Dusting

For three weeks in April, crop dusters worked the wheat fields from 7:00 A.M. until nearly 8:00 P.M. They were spraying for wheat rust, a fungus that can destroy 20% of the crop, more or less. They fly by computer with all of the GPS and navigational tools than I cannot comprehend. In the old days people would be on the ground to serve as markers. After the crop duster made a pass the marker would run to the next section of the field to mark the spot for the next fly over. Often the marker would get a good dousing of whatever herbicide or fungicide was laid down. I have met some of these people, several of whom are quite aged, and I am amazed they are still with us. This spring has been so moderate that harvesting wheat could begin in late May. A farmer told me the other day that he had never harvested wheat so early. The wheat is just beginning to turn a golden color and the big worry is that the crop could be destroyed by a late killing frost, hail, or violent winds that would lay it down. There is great hope for this crop. Last year’s harvest was cut dramatically by dry conditions. But this year they are saying that harvest could yield as much as a hundred bushels of wheat per acre. I think the norm is somewhere between 60 and 80. Weather remains a deep concern. While we have had a few good rainfalls from time to time this spring it has not been consistent enough to give anyone a sense of ease. Since March 1 (through May 7, 2012) we have had 4.8 inches of rain at our house. Last year weather forecasters indicated that we were entering a 10 dry pattern. A friend of mine went down to Texas last week to haul hay and discovered it was already drying out faster than they could harvest it out of the field. A large round bale of hay cost me $40.00 last summer and I was really lucky. Some people were paying $120.00 per bale and had to haul it themselves. Feedlots in western Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas were packed with so many cows going to market you could not see the end of them. The entire horizon was a wall of cattle. Another problem with weather is insect control. With a mild winter many insects have already emerged in wild numbers. It is May and June bugs are swarming, not to mention moths and the inevitable return of grasshoppers. What has any of this got to do with you? Immediately consumers will a difference in the cost of food. Because of worldwide wheat shortages last year many countries experienced riots because there was not enough wheat to bake bread, still the common staple throughout most of the world. The long term is difficult for me to imagine. By 2050 the world’s population is expected to reach 9.2 billion. I have read that food production will need to increase by 80%. I am not inclined to see how we will manage that given all of the variables that I have mentioned above. We have not managed arable land in most places throughout the world and irrigation for what we need to grow is unimaginable. The hard truth is that we are already experiencing water shortages in many parts of the U.S., with water tables dropping every year. The temptation will be to try and pack more crops onto shrinking land and rely evermore on chemicals for fertilizers and pest and disease control. The idea of sustainable farming has not yet captured the attention of national policy makers. In the meantime I do not know of any of America’s family farms that do not rely on outside income to sustain their families. They are now the very tiny minority of America’s “agribusiness.” They are working hard against incomprehensible odds.

Installation Invocation: Dr. Gary Miller

The Installation of the Chancellor
Dr. Gary Leon Miller
The University of North Carolina at Wilmington
April 20, 2012
Prayer of Invocation
Rev. Dr. Gary Blaine
I have fished the Gulf of Mexico,
watched squalls dance across her face,
raked clams, scallops and blue crab
off her sandy bottom.
I have swam and sailed her warm waters,
pushed along by the winds of God.
I have played in the surf of the
Atlantic and Pacific oceans,
accompanied by dolphins and sea lions,
watched with caution schools of
stingrays, sharks, and Portuguese man of war,
kissed always by the spirit of God.
I have snorkeled in the Caribbean,
hovered over colonies of sea urchins,
speared grouper and grabbed spiny lobsters,
stared down the undulating teeth of
silver barracuda and lemon sharks,
cooled ever by the breath of the Sacred One.
I have rolled a #5 line with a blue dun dry fly
into the Nantahala River gorge,
paddled the Manatee and Chattahoochee rivers,
crossed the mountain streams of the Appalachians,
sauntered the banks of Thoreau’s beloved Concord River,
nudged by the zephyr of Deity.
Blow now Holy Wind,
rise up from Cape Fear and the Outer Banks,
ruffle the waves of Masonboro Island,
splash across the campus of the
University of North Carolina, Wilmington,
stir the tidal pools of imagination
Brood upon the waters of thought and possibility,
sough the estuaries of research and experiment,
roil whitecaps across the bayous of the mind,
brew a nor’easter when our faculties are too content,
push the currents of intellectual freedom past the barrier reefs of
political ideology and religious temerity.
Holy Breath of Creativity,
bless this man, Gary Leon Miller
with the courage to sail the perilous seas of thought.
Keep his hand steady at the helm, his sails trim;
ballast in his soul for draft and stability.
Grace him with the good sense to find safe harbor
in deep humor and profound friendships.
Blow Spirit of Life.
Lift us up on the wings of Seahawks.
Dare us to soar into Thy future
in the great Ocean of Being.
Amen.

Goodbye, Red

Late this morning our vet came to Soggy Bottom to put down our mare, Red. I bought Red from my friend Ralph Bestvater. She was an American Quarter horse, about 26 years old. This is a photograph I took of her ear during winter several years ago.
Red was one of the most patient horses I have ever known. She took her shots without complaint as well as her oral medications. Red loved to trot, as if that was the only speed she knew. The only discipline problem I ever had with her was what I called the “Texas two-step.” When Red was tired of riding she would never buck or rear back. She just kind of did a little dance with her hind legs to let you know the session should be ending soon. I would continue to ride to let her know she didn’t get to make those decisions.
For the past year we have been fighting a persistent uterine infection. She lost a considerable amount of weight. I inoculated her with antibiotics and a medication that made her uterine wall dry up about four weeks ago. Red still dropped the weight until her hip bones were protruding. She did not seem to feel any exterior pain and continued to eat.
This morning after feeding I put on her red halter and took her into the back yard. Green grass and clover were hers to enjoy for the last two hours of her life. Dr. Baehler arrived about 11:45. He looked her over and said it was time to let her go. I led Red to the end of the driveway. Dr. Baehler injected her with a medication that is used to put down a variety of animal like the family dog. Red did not flinch, but maintained her usual patient deportment. The medication took effect fairly quickly. Red sat down and then rolled over to her right side. After a few moments Dr. Baehler listened for a heart beat and found none. A rendering service will come by this afternoon and pick up her body.
I had said goodbye to Red during the morning feeding. When the vet was gone I went into the house and got a hymnal. I went back outside and stood beside her. I sang all seven stanzas of St. Francis of Assisi’s, “All Creature of Our God and King.” When I was finished I patted Red on her head, thanked her again for the years of joy she had give me, and said goodbye.

Early Spring

We have had an unusually warm winter. Temperatures this week in Kansas will reach 80 degrees. The plants, trees, weeds, and birds at our place have no doubt about the season. The pear trees are crowned in white. Forsythias are highlighted in yellow. My peach trees are leafing out and I worry about a late killing frost. Small reconnaissance parties of red robins hop around the yard conducting a census of earthworms, grubs, and insects for the folks back in Florida. The red wing black birds queue up on the fence post nattering about their winter carnival as the white crowned sparrows plan their voyage north. The cardinals have taken their posts, haling one another in the early morning across wheat fields and woodlots. Plovers, also called killdeer, skitter across the pasture piping their high-pitched calls. They always seem rather nervous to me, sounding alarums at the most non-threatening pilgrim. I only await the scissor-tailed flycatcher.
All last weekend fleets of motorcycles whizzed up and down the interstate highways.
This past week we cleaned out our hen house and set up a small stall for new chicks. We put down fresh bedding material, bought chick starter feed and a new water feeder. The heating lamp was tested and found to be in good working order. Six chicks came home with us on Saturday: silver laced Wyandottes, brown leghorns, and California whites. This morning two were dead and the other four were gone. From the scat on the floor I think it was a skunk. We ordered new ones this afternoon. They are sent by U.S. mail to our farm and feed store. They should be in on April 6th.
Christopher and I set out new fence posts for the vegetable garden and strawberry patch. I hope to get the fencing up tomorrow, in time to plant lettuce, spinach, and peas before the next spring showers that will hopefully come the later part of the week. Christopher had also built a rain harvesting system out of 55 gallon barrels. With the last brief rain we collected 275 gallons of water. We will attach soaker hoses to them when we need to water the gardens.
Life re-emerges in bud, chick, and work. Seasons do not so much change as they merge and meld into today and tomorrow. Seasons do not change like overcoats. They blend with the power of youth and death. As far as we human beings know this is the eternal process. For me it is a sacred process. I never cease to be filled with wonder at the scent of pine bedding and wet earth, the body odor of man sweat and horses, the aroma of freshly baked bread and musk.

Just Don’t Call Them Biblical Values
Gary Blaine

Republican candidate Rick Santorum has criticized President Obama’s faith this week and stated that it is, “Not a theology based on the Bible.” Mr. Santorum seems to have a vision of America that is a theocracy based on Jewish and Christian principles. Mr. Santorum’s comments invite a host of questions that theocrats inevitably raise. Why a Jewish and Christian theocracy as if these two traditions were synonymous and meant the same thing. Which Judaism of the Hebrew Bible would he endorse, that of the pre-Davidic monarchy, or the Judaism of the various kingdoms of Israel and Judah, an exilic Judaism or post exilic Judaism? Or does he mean the theology of the Jewish peasant, Jesus, prior to the crucifixion and resurrection or the post resurrection community through the Council of Nicea? After Constantine everything “Christian” changes through the Dark Ages to post-Christian America.
I wonder if Mr. Santorum really imagines a United States government based on the Bible. As I read the Bible the nation would spend little time debating questions about gender orientation and put a tremendous amount of work and money into caring for the poor. There are only about six, possibly nine, Biblical references to homosexuality. But there are hundreds of references about the poor, God’s concern for the poor, God’s commands about caring for the poor, the consequences of not providing for the poor, and the blessings on those who provide for the poor.
I am not sure Mr. Santorum would win the endorsement of the Chamber of Commerce, banks, and corporations because a distinct value of the Bible prohibits usury. In the strict sense, usury in the Bible is any interest on loans, not just exploitive loans. And how about the year of the Jubilee? That Biblical value would require that all land borrowed, stolen, purchased, or seized for unpaid debts would return to its original owners. The Jubilee Year, every fifty years, would mean that all debts are forgiven.
Mr. Santorum wants to finish the wall that separates the United States from Mexico to stop illegal immigration. Never mind that it won’t really work given the massive border that surrounds the U.S. More importantly it is not a Biblical concept. Torah speaks repeatedly about caring for and even protecting foreigners and aliens. In fact, the Deuteronomist instructs us to “Love you therefore the stranger: for you were once strangers in the land of Egypt.”
Finally, do most Americans really want Biblical values when it comes to issues of national defense? Does Mr. Santorum really want to beat our drones into plowshares and our nuclear missiles in pruning hooks? I’ll bet nobody at the Pentagon, the Defense Department, or proud investors in the military industrial complex would vote for that. Biblical values require us to seek peace and reconciliation and not commit acts of violence against even our worst enemies. Mr. Santorum might do well to re-read the Sermon on the Mount.
Without a doubt people will argue with me about same-sex marriage, the abuse of entitlement programs, capitalism and a free-trade economy, the necessity of secure borders, and a strong military presence in the world. Their values will reflect their worldview and political ideology. Just don’t call them Biblical values.

Whitney's Death

The death of Whitney Houston has taken over the media. One morning news program devoted its entire two hours to her life, music, and demise.
Without a doubt Whitney Houston was a magnificent entertainer. Her voice spanned three octaves, delivered with soulful power. Not for a moment would I diminish her talent. Her career inspired many artists and her music touched the hearts of thousands of people.
Sadly, Whitney Houston is one more name in the list of artists and entertainers whose lifestyle destroyed them. The list is a long one and includes people like Kurt Cobain, Elvis Presley, Chris Farley, River Phoenix, Michael Jackson, and Marilyn Monroe.
Already people are asking who is to blame for Ms. Houston’s death. Investigators are searching her medical records to determine what medications her doctors prescribed for her. Yet a former body guard reported the other day that her behavior was so self-destructive that he had to check on her every seven minutes to make certain that she was safe. She admitted that her own worst enemy was herself.
I do not judge Whitney Houston. But the only truth is that she is to blame for her death. Hers alone was the responsibility to seek the treatment she needed and make the choices that guaranteed her health. She chose to do otherwise and paid for it with her life. She also brought incredible grief to her daughter and others who loved her.
Over the years I have become convinced that the values of a consumer democracy actually erode the very character that establishes democracy in the first place. We have moved away from the agrarian principles of hard work, the reality of struggling with nature to feed human beings, and understanding that such a struggle does not make everyone a “WINNER!” We have lost our sense of personal responsibility and the reality that life is often fragile no matter how hard we have worked. I think of crops that have grown through the early spring and destroyed by a late killing frost, or blown over by high winds and hail just before harvest.
The glamour of Hollywood does not instill such character in people. We have known this for a very long time. The vanity, excess money, and pseudo-adulation of the entertainment business gives people the mistaken idea that life can be bought, charmed, and seduced by the right combination of talent and public relations.
None of it is real.
The death of Whitney Houston is a sad thing. But the loss is greater than the voice of such lyrics as “I will always love you.” The greater sorrow is a nation that lacquers over its own self-destructive behaviors and rushes out to buy the greatest hits of the dearly departed.

A Quiet January

We are deep into January and there is not yet much winter weather to comment about. We have had less than an inch of snow. Drought conditions have not slackened. When I hear the weather reporter on television remark that this is going to be a “great week with a clear weekend forecast,” I know that he or she knows nothing about farming and gardening. It would be a great week and weekend if we could have gentle rains thoroughly drench the soil. Temperatures have been down into the twenties but only for a very brief time. The Kansas wind blows, of course, and can make the wind chill really bite.
About four o’clock in the afternoon the Great Horned owls begin hooting across the winter wheat fields to one another. I love to hear their deep throated questions, “Who, who-who?” Later in the evening the Screech Owl begins its twirring, a subtle song of constant note. Coyotes yelp in the bedlam of their crazy packs. Barnyard dogs bark at the frenzy of night.
And then there are times, both day and night, when there is absolute silence. I do not even hear the grumbling of the Santa Fe trains in the distance.
Orion’s belt has been moving slowly in the southerly sky from east to west. The Milky Way is smeared over our house and I always marvel that our planet is a voting member of that bright system.
So far it has been a quiet winter and seemingly unremarkable. But recall the words of the 18th century English cleric, William Law: “All that is sweet, delightful, and amiable in this world, in the serenity of the air, the fineness of seasons, the joy of light, the melody of sounds, the beauty of colors, the fragrancy of smells, the splendor of precious stones, is nothing else but Heaven breaking through the veil of this world.”