Sowing and Reaping

“I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid.” I repeated softly, lying to myself as I approached the chain link fence and reached for the gate latch.

It was a technique taught to me by my father when I was a little girl after my first face-to-face encounter with someone’s ferocious dog. “They can sense your fear and it makes it worse. You have to control your fear,” he had advised. I practiced this method on numerous occasions and was sure that the distracting fib had been helpful in the past.

However, today’s encounter was not with a growling pet, but with a growling human – my neighbor of many years, Mr. Keirnan. And I was not a little girl, but a grown woman with four little girls of my own.

I knew his name because it was routed onto a wooden board with lettering painted black for contrast that announced: “The Keirnans” from the front of his home. It was one of those signs you can have custom made at a booth at a craft show or flea market. Other than that, I didn’t know much about him. He kept to himself, sitting alone on his front porch, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, and smoking cigarettes. Occasionally, he was found painting ceramic figurines in bold colors and lining them up to form a border along a forgotten flower bed – they were colorful sentinels watching the world go by with him as they sat together day in and day out with little change in their routine.

His front yard was fenced and it had a large expansive gate that he had to get out of his car to open and close as he came and went. The fence helped keep his little dog in, but from his demeanor everyone believed the fence was also to keep everyone else out. And it worked. There were tales of lost balls mistakenly tossed in his yard never to be returned. Other tales of gruff encounters, which were embellished with repeating, had everyone in the neighborhood afraid of him, even the adults.

So what was I doing broaching the NO VISITORS zone on this day? Trying to put the faith I preached to my daughters into practice; trusting God to help me see a way to find a way to build a relationship with someone who needed Him. The priority of caring for my growing family left me with limited time to develop friendships outside of church. This man lived across the street. He was the one I would practice on.

“Hi,Mr. Keirnan. I’m Mary. I live across the street. We have four daughters and we went to Plant City this morning to pick strawberries. I thought you might enjoy them. They are delicious!” He seemed surprised at the sound of a different voice. He set his paper aside and reached for the red fruit mounded in the basket as I thrust it towards him and abruptly turned to leave. “I don’t need the basket back. You can keep it,” I added as I hastily retreated to the gate and quickly latched it behind me.

Whew. I did it. I broke the ice. Not just with him, but in me.

It wasn’t a start that made much of a splash as I dove into this friendship. It was more like dangling a toe into the water to see if it was too cold to jump in all at once. But it was the start of a commitment to paying attention and looking for opportunities to get to know and minister to him so he would trust me. It was as simple as a hand waving across the street or stopping to talk over the fence barrier when walking past.  Cookies from our kitchen, fruit from spring pickings or vegetables from backyard gardens were simple offerings that were easily given and easily accepted. And slowly, in an intentional, intermittent, and ongoing way we began to know each other.

He had been married almost forty years. There was a daughter who was married with two young boys and an unmarried son. While their mother was alive they had come by more often. They still came by, though less frequently and for shorter visits. He sat so much because of a back injury while working for a national retailer. Numerous visits to numerous doctors had brought little relief, so he limited his activity to limit the pain. Growing up in Chicago brought stories of a different time and place. He beamed as he shared that his father’s pride and joy had been owning  a car that had once belonged to the infamous gangster, Al Capone. Like a cistern collecting rain to be put to use another day, conversations and kindnesses collected, shortening the distance between our home and our lives.

It was on a late night run for a gallon of milk when the headlights of my car illuminated an unexpected sight in Mr. Keirnan’s yard. I turned on the brights as I made a u-turn around the large oak tree that divided the lane between our homes. There were four small pineapples dangling above the thick, spiky moat that grew along his chain link fence. I laughed at the irony of this symbol of welcome growing in the yard of someone who was considered a stranger and unfriendly.

As we talked plants the next day, he shared that he would bring back the pineapple tops from his regular weekend trips to the flea market. Most of them grew from their shallow planting and the whole process from rooting to fruiting took two years. We marveled that they could be sold so reasonably with such a long time investment. Together we monitored their growth as our friendship also grew.

Sprinkled throughout our conversations were references to God’s provision, protection, and purpose in our lives. My family’s lives were on full display to him as he sat everyday on his front porch, watching the comings and goings of our lively brood. He could have easily guessed that we were religious people based on the Wednesday evening and Sunday morning activity. But we wanted him to know that the activity was because of a relationship with the living God, and he could have that relationship too. It was natural to speak of Jesus to him because speaking naturally about Jesus was a habit practiced in our home as we celebrated the many and varied ways He cared for our needs.

One day, I received a call from a neighbor who lived a couple of houses down. The voice on the phone was filled with concern. “Mary, you need to check on Mr. Keirnan. There are several days’ newspapers piled up in front of his gate. I haven’t seen him out. You need to find out if he’s okay,” insisted Ms. Ruby. As I hung up the phone, crossed the street and reached for the latch on the gate, the apprehension I felt was different than on that first day when we met. On that first day, I was afraid of him. Today, I was afraid for him.

It took several minutes for a response to the loud knocking on his door. The sounds of movement in the house were a relief. He looked terrible from fighting a flu bug, but he didn’t need anything since his son was coming later that day. He thanked me for checking on him. The great tenderness I now felt towards him caught me by surprise.

Meanwhile, the pineapples continued to grow and ripen. It was a great delight to him to harvest and eat the first of them. “I ate almost the whole thing – it was so sweet!” he joyfully announced to me one morning. A few days later the second pineapple was cut and brought inside. I would have hinted at tasting one of the two that remained, but it took so long for him to grow them. We were friends, but I didn’t ask when he didn’t offer.

The following week I walked over to visit after sweeping our sidewalk and driveway. The last two pineapples were gone. I asked if they were as delicious as the first two. “I don’t know,” he responded, his voice thick with emotion. He pointed to a sandy spot in his front yard where they laid with their tops hacked off and the yellow flesh of the fruit exposed and spoiled in the dirt. No, he didn’t know who or when. “I will find out who did this,” I promised, fighting back angry tears.

It didn’t take long to find out from the children in the neighborhood that the perpetrators were two older boys who lived on a connecting street. The relationship between them and us was not strong. There would be no apology. But the children on our street caught my outrage at the meanness of the deed. It was a turning point. Now the children began to wave and talk to him as they passed his home. He had been unfairly treated, something they could empathize with. They too, began to reach out to him.

Most days, our conversations were short and gently passed the time. On this day, he casually uncovered a small white box from under the newspapers stacked beside him. “I was doing some cleaning up and found this. I don’t have any use for it and I thought you might like it, or maybe your girls could use it for school,” he said. It was a small solar calculator like the kind that is used as a free gift to get you to purchase something. I thanked him and realized the act of friendship it represented on his part. In the weeks that followed, he offered a small alarm clock and a pen and pencil set, always discovered while he was cleaning and under the premise that I was helping him by accepting them.

Then one day, he pulled out a beautiful porcelain box. Painted in different shade of mauve and pink it was gilded on the edges and on the carnations that decorated the top. It had been done by his wife, a gifted artist. She and her daughter had run a small ceramics business for many years before she died. It was a cherished treasure that surely reminded him of her and maybe had even belonged to her. I hesitated to accept but he insisted.

Then came the day when I was able to offer him a real treasure. I told him the story of how God’s love found me when I didn’t even know what I was looking for. The promise of heaven wasn’t as important to me as a twelve year-old girl as being loved unconditionally. God loved me so much that He sent his Son, Jesus, to die for me and for everyone else who would trust Him to forgive their sins. I told Him how that love had changed me and the way I treated others. It could do those things for him also. I didn’t press him for a response. I did not pray with Him. I waited to see if the Good Seed would grow in the soil that the Lord had been lovingly cultivating.

Over the next several weeks whenever I was outside sweeping or doing yard work, I could hear the small radio that Mr. Keirnan sometimes played and listened to as he sat and read. Now the station had been programmed to a Christian radio station. Whenever he noticed me outside, he would turn it up so loud that I could hear what he was hearing – gospel music, powerful preaching, others telling the same story I had told him.

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“You can’t cut down a tree in someone’s front yard without asking them first!” my husband Sam responded to the request to use his chainsaw to cut down the tree in Mr. Keirnan’s yard. “But I know he wants it taken down. He can’t afford to pay someone to do it. I know he will be pleased,” I replied. “If you’re sure,” Sam cautioned, giving me one more chance to back out of my plan.

The tree was tall and willowy and was easily felled. We dragged the limbs to the wood chipper parked in front of our house. While Sam finished stacking what could be used for firewood, I got our mower out and started on the tall grass. There were a couple balls hidden in the overgrowth. I was reminded of when we misunderstood why they were never returned. None of us realized then that he couldn’t walk very far without assistance. I was embarrassed at our wrong conclusions.

When we finished, we put the tools away and waited inside our house, peeking through the blinds to watch for his arrival. Before long they were home and Mr. Keirnan stood in his front yard looking up, incredulous, at where the tree had been. Was he glad?

It wasn’t until the next morning when there was an unexpected knock at the door that we knew for sure. Mr. Keirnan stood there holding a pair of porcelain figurines. “Thank you,” he said with tears in his eyes, “I want you to have these.” The boy and the girl painted in earth tone colors and in alpine dress, looked like Hummels. He turned to leave and started the walk home. It was only the second time he had crossed the road to our home in the many years we knew him. The figurines had been exquisitely painted by his wife, perfectly matching the colors and shadings of the real Hummel figurines.

The days blended into weeks, then months, then years. His son moved in with him when he lost his job. Soon there was another job and he stayed so his father wouldn’t be living alone. I hadn’t spoken to him for over a week but I noticed that he had lost a lot of weight. “Mr. Keirnan, you need to get your son to take you to a doctor to see if everything is okay,” I said. He told me he had an appointment for later that week.

The news was not good. He had cancer and he was not going to treat it. He would just stay at home and handle it. His wife never came home again after she went to the hospital. He would not make the same mistake. But less than six weeks later, an ambulance and paramedics were at his door, taking him to the hospital. The doctor who had diagnosed his cancer called them when he didn’t return. The choice that could not be made by those who loved him had been made by a stranger.

It was just before Easter and our schedule included many commitments at church during this time. I called and spoke to the nurses. He was very sick but he was resting comfortably. If they could stabilize him he would be moved to a nursing home the following week.

It wasn’t until Easter Sunday afternoon that I was finally able to see my friend in the hospital. I carried a potted plant of blooming flowers and we made awkward small talk. The silences said the things that neither one of us could bear to say. I held his hand and prayed for him and then turned to leave, promising to come back. The nurse called the next day. Mr. Keirnan had died early that morning. I’d like to believe he had waited for me to come before he left.

Is Mr. Keirnan in heaven with Jesus? I am not absolutely sure. I believe he is. But what I do know for sure is that he experienced a little of the unconditional love of God through a neighbor God used to show Mr. Keirnan His kindness.

 It was for Jesus’ sake. And it was for Mr. Keirnan’s sake. And yes, it was for my sake, too. 

 

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Author’s note: Mr. Keirnan’s name has been changed but his story is true. It happened in our neighborhood many years ago. Friendship is a reciprocal thing with both people giving and both people receiving.

This is also a story of cultivation. Our youngest daughter recently reminded me that the Parable of the Sower is Jesus telling it like it really is: If you want your Good Seed to grow, you prepare the soil if you want a healthy harvest. Don’t forget to take care of the needs of the young plant so it can thrive and reproduce!

Rebirth is always God’s doing, His way, His timing, His glory. To be able to watch the process is a miraculous gift, a harvest in the life of the one who believes and a harvest in the life of the one who sees.