Friday, October 24, 2014
A box landed on my doorstep today. I anticipated its arrival for a fundraising event I've been preparing for, for several weeks now. The event transpires this weekend. Flying quickly onto my living room couch, I opened up the plain brown wrapping, the insides filled with colorful t-shirts, bracelets, pens and clip boards, brochures and hope.
My back faced the picture of Tim, the one transformed into eternity, the one I remember as I think of others still under wraps of this disease, cocooned in the fear of the unknown. A feeling rises up, an emotion of...not sure, and I stifle it a bit, until I turn around and see that face.
I'm doing this again Tim. I hope you can see, ...that you're proud of me.
I assume my normal after-work routine, retreating to my small garden in the fall afternoon. Growing, one pumpkin on an invasive vine, it increases in size every day. I check on its well being.
And it is well. The soul of this gourd contains a seed from last year's find--a continued legacy.
Quiet. Peaceful, until I hear the finch; its puckered squeak, like a baby's kiss. I spy the bright yellow belly hopping from branch to branch as if he's at a buffet, gathering a variety of morsels. I stood still to watch him, wondering where his crew was, for they usually appear in number. Not this one, he gathered alone and I, a timely voyeur to his bounty.
Are you not much more valuable than they?
Then it comes--the answer to the inquiry I posed earlier. I hope you're proud of me. Yellow and black wings guide it over the fence and right over the top of my head. As if to check on the pumpkin, he streamlines the vine's path to the flower garden and bounces over the gate, up and over the neighbor's roof. My eyes do not leave his flight path.
Almost November...and a swallowtail!
I grab a chair to sit, but I should have kneeled.
He returns to fly and flutter amongst the branches of my orange tree, even landing for a few brief seconds, seconds in which I know I am loved, a second in which the Holy Spirit speaks to my heart, and an eternity of seconds that tell me Heaven is proud.
A lifetime of my own seconds whispering that all things work together for His good.
For my good...
The pumpkin swells with gratitude that it continues, even after...
even after a natural season, or an unatural blight. It cannot be ordinary, for it thrives in a garden of flowers, herbs, and tomatoes soaking up living water and basking in the rays of redemption.
Somewhere, a butterfly tastes the nectar of nurture, sustained into the glorious heavens. Somewhere, a pumpkin opens up and the seeds of transforming salvation find their fertile soil tilled by a faithful, praying mother.
I write so that I can share the completeness of that joy come full circle, up and over a fence and down a garden path, over a rooftop and back around, a void refilled with divine purpose.
An extraordinary day, this day to see the butterfly. An extraordinary day to feel and know I am loved and can rest in His garden of promise.