It’s 6:38 p.m. Supper is over, and the kitchen is clean. I’ve come out to the porch to sit and soak in the last of this day. In just a few short weeks, it will be dark by this time of evening.
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I’d forgotten that Mama likes to hold hands. Not that I’d remember the iron grip that steadied me as a toddler learning to walk or the one that kept me from running headlong into danger’s path. I was too young then for such memories to stick.
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For many years, Boston ferns hung in baskets along my front porch, from spring into fall. I enjoyed their graceful foliage spilling over the edges of their plastic containers. I watered them diligently, especially during the hottest part of summer, and they rewarded me with lush fronds that waved to me as I pulled into the drive at the end of each day. Then one summer, the ferns became infested with tiny caterpillars that quickly ravaged them, leaving behind containers of nothing but long skinny sticks.
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After a while, I sensed someone by my side and felt a hand on my back. In a thickly, accented voice, a man began to pray. He prayed quietly for a few moments, then to me he said, “Prayer is your backbone.” That was it. He moved on.
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What would your answer be if Jesus were to ask you, “What do you seek?” I think such a question would overwhelm me. There are so many things I want to understand, I’m not sure I’d know where to begin.
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It was mid-December last year before I got the Christmas tree up. I don’t usually wait that long, but I was having trouble getting into the spirit of things. I put if off over and over waiting for the right time, a convenient time. Eventually, I thought, “Just do it. When the tree’s up and the house is decorated, it’ll feel like Christmas.” So, I did.
But Christmas didn’t come.
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No matter how much I love the garden, the time always comes to let go. At the beginning of the year, when an unexpected warm day pokes it head into February’s door with the promise of spring, I begin to dream and plan for what I will plant. I envision not only the initial planting, but fantasize of a second summer planting that will keep the supply of cucumbers and tomatoes coming long past August and into September. I even fancy the possibility of fall greens and root vegetables.
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An incident occurred in my family when I was a young girl of seven or eight years old that I have rarely shared. I’ll admit, it was not my finest hour.
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Often when I’m walking down to my garden, I notice weeds here and there as I wade through the lush Bermuda of the backyard. From my kitchen window, or even the sofa on the patio, I don’t see those unwanted shoots camouflaged among the blades of green grass.
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It’s been seven years since I stepped off a plane onto African soil. Seven years. Even now, all I have to do is think of it, and I’m back there again.
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As I read, I began to realize my soul had felt dry and thirsty for a long time, and as far as I could tell, there was no end in sight.
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As a teenager, I remember trying to find the meaning of my name. The results of my search were less than satisfying. Terri meant swan and Lynn meant lake. I’d been hoping for something profound. I didn’t quite know how to spin swan lake into anything that would wow anyone, myself included.
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Have you ever lost your sense of wonder? I have.
As children, we were easily amazed. Planes in the sky, bubbles emerging from a soapy wand, the flashing lights and shrieking cry of a firetruck were all it took. Then we grew up and these moved onto a growing list of things we’ve experienced hundreds of times. What we once marveled at, became ordinary.
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Home is where you can wash off your makeup, lay aside your dress-up clothes, and put on your stretchy pants. It’s where you are free to ramble about and raid the cupboards. It’s where you can sink down on the sofa, prop up your feet, and hang out with the people you love. But it’s more than that.
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I suppose everyone has that one place they can go that feeds their soul. A place where they are refreshed. For some it’s the beach, for others the mountains. Maybe it’s the golf course. Mine is much closer to home. For me, it’s the garden.
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Our dog, Gabby, died on a Thursday in April. It’s been over a year. The day was unusually cool, filled with brilliant sunshine, and kissed by a gentle breeze. She was fourteen and a half years old.
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