There is no safe and holy space right now for my remaining family. Just about everything has come undone, been uprooted, and destabilized with a familiar and yet new and foreboding depth. The details are unimportant, but their lessons are not. Coming face to face with the reality that what I have to offer is not welcome, what I know is not valued, and what I have to worry about is endless has been quite humbling. And, in the middle of this whole mess is my Dad's vine.
It sits in a big blue pot I put its several pieces into almost 8 years ago. The pieces were just clippings from a gorgeous vine in his beautiful vineyard overlooking Flathead Lake ~ Partridge Hill Vineyard. Every year since the shoots have sprouted leaves, flowers, buds, and small clusters of Pinot Noir grapes. This year's harvest was 1.5 pounds. Not much, but a piece of the life my Dad sowed with his own hands. Each year I eat the grapes in a sort of communion with Dad. This year the past month, has been hot and I picked my little harvest a little late. But, soon after the picking every single leaf turned brown, dried up, and blew away. Normally, the Autumn colors on the vine are lovely, but no colors this year.
As the painful and ugly continues to unfold between my family members, the vine has done something very unexpected. Hundreds of new, delicate, perfect, bright green leaves have sprouted from the branches. Today is the first day of Fall and the vine looks like early May. I don't understand this and I must confess that the other night I stood by it asking, "Dad, do you have something to do with this? Why is the vine, now with its harvest past and its work done for this year, sporting such a great collection of new leaves?"
The vine has been a source of strength and hope ever since Dad suddenly died on a cold Autumn night in November, 2001. With the mess my family is in now, I long for his voice of calm, his presence, and his ability to soothe the waters. I miss him terribly. I want to stand next to him and feel his strong, tall frame infuse reason and rational thought into our fragile situation. The best I can do is stand next to his vine, touch its leaves, sense his love, and trust God who has birthed new leaves on the heels of harvest.
Finding myself in this tenuous family situation is very hard. It looks like we're reaping what's been sown for decades. I want to keep planting new seeds, but my seeds aren't being sought or received. This painful harvest may well continue; but now, for me, it's graced with beautiful, fresh, new, green leaves on Dad's vine - his voice, his inspiration, his presence continues. God does birth new life on the heels of harvest and quite unexpectedly so.