Boundaries In Pleasant Places

I grew up in the rocky soil of New England, and in my little town, which sits along the trail that the minutemen used from Lexington to Concord in the first skirmishes with the Redcoats in what would become the American Revolutionary War, the topography is criss-crossed with low walls of stone. These walls were created by farmers clearing their fields after the spring thaw, prepping the soil for the crops and at the same time using the stone to mark the boundaries of their lands. The walls, standing no more than two feet in height in many places, have existed since the late 18^th century, and they look every bit their age. Even to my young mind as a nine year old boy, I would stand in the middle of the woods and gape at what must be ancient property markers running through the forest in perpendicular lines among the trees. Mossy, leaf and lichen covered, they traverse the countryside, through fields, villages, woodland, silently serpentining throughout New England; I would imagine horse drawn carts lugging the rock from the fields, and men in tri-cornered hats piling the stones down the side of the lane. These manmade outcroppings that have outlasted generations and even the fields they were plucked from, are clocks. They track the land’s rich geological history and reminded me that I was not the first to step in the quiet woods. Each year on Patriot’s Day, the anniversary of the first shots of the Revolution, I would sit on one of these stone walls at the end of my driveway on Bellows Hill and listen for the distant fife and drums of the reenactors as they led the townspeople on the annual walk along the Estabrook trail, the path that the original minutemen took to engage the British, which went right by my house. The year my parents let me join in the trek was a big moment of patriotic pride for me.

There is a connection between my New England experience and where we have moved in Kentucky. In 1774, a man named William McConnell led a survey party down the Ohio River through this part of the country for what was then Virginia. He built a settlement here to stake his claim to the land, and when word reached him of the initial colonial victory against the British in New England, he named the settlement Lexington in honor of the occasion. Near where we live, in the midst of great industrial parks and busy roadways, sit rock wall sentinals built by Irish immigrants in the early 1800’s. These walls are 2 to 3 feet tall, and are characterized by a row of flat stones stood upright across the top, perpendicular to the stones that create the bulk of the wall. In many places the walls are broken and in disrepair. In other places, newer walls, obvious homage to the originals, have been built to mark entrances to upscale housing developments or large private residences. But the fact that remnants from over a century ago still exist in the midst of so much development, industry, and change, is fascinating to me.

Compare this boundary marker with another one nearby, one that dominates the bluegrass landscape: the fences of the horse farms. White or ebony, they are nearly as magnificent in their breadth and scope as the huge parcels of pasture and land that they enclose. With some of these farms being easily a thousand acres in size and many such farms being next to each other, one can drive for miles and see seemingly no end to them, and across the panorama see sections of hundreds of acres partitioned off over the vast rolling hills and valleys of the Kentucky landscape. Beautiful stables and barns, trees encircled by fencing to protect the foliage and the horses simultaneously, all create a landscape that is ordered, manicured, and speak of noble beasts and southern gentry. One expects the country squire to round the corner at any moment on his steed as he surveys his land. Indeed, the horses of Lexington are held in high esteem and well cared for.

Fences protect. Fences hide. Fences divide; as Robert Frost stated with irony “Great fences make for great neighbors." It all depends on perspective and the type of fence used, I suppose. When I look at these low lying rock fences, they speak to me of simple boundary markers. To me the white Kentucky wood fences speak of security and order. They keep horses in, but with their open design and simple wood frames they are poor defences and poor privacy.

 

When people speak of the will of God, I find that many times they envision something incredibly confining and restricting, with hardly room to move, the walls of which then serve more like a prison. This is actually a holding pen where there is no freedom, little movement, and no real life. Often times, especially when wondering what to do next, I find that people think of the Will of God more like a rodeo chute or a vaccination corral, with only one specific direction to move: forward. No turning left or right. The path is clear because there’s quite literally no other option. There are times when this type of fence would seem inviting to me; one path would seem to eliminate a great possibility for error or failure or missteps.  At least if I fail on that path, I can blame God, since He gave me no other choice. I am not doubting that at times God calls someone to such a specific path with a specific purpose and a specific task; the Bible and history are full of such stories. However, I find that most of the time, the will of God is like the great horse pastures of Kentucky, epic in scale and vast in its possibilities. Even at the outset of Creation, God sets a man and a woman in a garden the size of a country with a single fence restriction. God, the good country squire invites with a great joyful grin, “Here are the boundary markers for your protection; but run and work and play anywhere inside this great expanse of freedom that I’ve created.”

 Consider then David the Psalmist when he writes, “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.” And in another Psalm he declares “The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it.” Later in human history, as things got messier and people used walls to defend, lay siege, imprison and dominate, God speaks again through Christ and declares with great joy “Here’s the boundary line: Love me with all you’ve got, and love each other more than you love yourself. By my own self-denial and death you have the way and model to life. And at the end of your life, you’ll want to hear me say ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into my joy.’ Now go. Run and live your life in freedom with all the personality and gifts that I’ve given you to allow for that to happen. Just mind the fences.” That’s a big and expansive space with lots of liberty to explore. Those are boundary lines of good and noble purpose in pleasant places, even if the physical realities of life get harsh. That’s the Good Squire surveying his land and holding all that He owns in high regard. Those are good fences that will outlast my life here.