Land Stewardship

I was sitting by the Karen Palmer Memorial platform the other night. The moon was full and rising and the breeze was strong enough to hold the mosquitos in check. It was pleasant and still, save for the soft hooting of the barred owl a hundred yards away. A few killdeer were making a fuss as they circled overhead but soon they landed and became comfortable enough to go silent. My thoughts turned to the meaning of life and death and especially the things that Karen never will see this side of the beatific vision. And I wondered the great, "WHY?"

A motion drew my attention. Maybe less than a motion, perhaps a sense, some type of internal calling. I turned my attention to the side and saw the solitary figure of a small animal sitting about 50 yards away. It was the fox. The male fox to be precise. He was sitting, guarding, a pose that I have been accustomed to over the previous four years. He always guards. He never eats first, and always flees last. His role is to live, mate, guard and be present. It used to be a noble role. But his mate and all three of this years litter lie buried in the church Garden—road kills, attesting to the high speed of today’s traffic and the inability of the wildlife to adjust. Now what does he guard? For him, it is an empty garden. There is no monument or memorial to his family of short duration.

As I look gently upon this wonderful creature so still in the soft moonlight I come to see that we are joined. I remember Karen and I remember the family of the fox. All were filled with vibrant life, and acted out their roles for what I judge to be all too short of a time. Now the fox is alone. And Karen’s husband is alone. And I am alone thinking upon these things. For this evening, the fox and I can be one in our thoughts of what once was and now will be no more. Could it be that in this way, I am his family’s memorial?

Some day, when work is underway on a new school, or a new playground, or a new this or that, the cutting heavy blade of the bulldozer will turn up the bones of the small fox kits buried with compassion and sadness. And workmen will look and comment upon the remains. But they will not remember, for they never knew the fox. To remember you must know something. It must become and be part of you in some way greater than just a glance or a happenstance.

Do you suppose that fox, in their own animate way, wonder why?

I don't believe that it is given that I understand these things yet. Perhaps later, when I join Karen and all the others that have gone before me.