Last week I piled the van with children and we drove through
Carolina country. We drove to Pittsboro to the old man's farm. His sign
hangs by the road, the words are fading from bright summer sun. There is a
hand written sign by the gate saying "close gate behind you" so we do,
one of mine hops out and opens it while I drive through then they close
it behind the van. I love coming here, year after year and it always
feels the same. The air smells earthy and like fruit. The place is loud
with birds; turkeys and peacocks wearing bright blue feathers and
shouting into the day. Chickens talk amongst themselves in loud clucks. I can hear children laughing through the bushes. We pick buckets full and have
races and help the littler children who aren't as fast pickers. We sweat
in the humid sunshine and we talk about big things and funny things and
small things too. We drink water and splash it on our faces and our
fingers turn purple from berry juice. I wish I could capture these
moments. I wish I could keep us there in that timeless, staying the same
place where the world is lost behind that crooked gate and I savor all
of it. This place of safety and where life is easy and nothing pushes or
pulls us to move on. Somebody sings and the Birch comes up to me determined
to pick his own bucket full this year, he has his Ariat boots on and his
cheeks are red and his hair is bright white from days in the pool.
White on brown skin and blue eyes squinching up at me. He lets me help
after the older bunch move on and we pick together his small hands full
and dropping berries into the mulch. I am filled then with love for this
precious boy who in August will march himself to school and leave me in
a new chapter of parenting. I never dreamed it would come so fast or
hurt like this. My house has been full this year and empty too, of my
older ones moving and traveling and getting married and coming home and
leaving again. I am not sure what to think of it all, this life going
faster than I and leaving me struggling to catch my breath. I walk in
the mornings and I think it has become my therapy and keeps me grounded.
I think about all of this while I pick the fruit that is warm in my
hands. I think that God knows this place too, where my heart is torn and
things seem too big for me and I remember how in Psalms it says He
numbers the stars and how He knows them by name and I am glad for that.
Glad that He knows them and numbers them because then I am certain He
knows me and He is there in the berry patch and He thinks much of me and
my children and the neighbor children too who bring us life and
fullness of days. We pick berries for us and for some of our neighbors.
We are learning this year what Loving our neighbors really means so we
pick with the intention of giving. When we get home we put them in bags
and I do a neighborhood delivery of berries. I love doing that, stopping
in and giving small gifts because I am the one who always leaves being
given wonderful gifts.
Kalani came along when we brought them
to our elderly friends Paul and Miss Dot. She was being my fancy girl
and cartwheeled out of the van. We brought a card because it was Miss
Dots birthday and we all signed it so the words were all over the card
with notes and names of my children. They live at the end of a gravel
road where the rocks make a lane and the flowers bloom and the old trees
creak in the wind. They are old and the house is getting forgotten, the
porch is faded and falling apart and we walked up the stairs carefully.
They come to the door and are so glad to see us. They invite us in and
we visit for awhile. Miss Dot is forgetful and she is the sweetest
southern women I have met. She thinks my children are beautiful and my
boys are strong. She used to love to read. She smiles and watches us.
Paul is a very gracious man and he carries the conversation. I know he
was in the war. I know he has son who lives far away in WA and he prays
for him. He loves my boys and he gets teary when he asks about my big
Troy who is also far away. The house is full of stuff. There are piles
and stacks and things shuffled around so we can sit at the table. Kalani
loves it, she takes a tour and exclaims over things and looks at all
the wonderful treasure. I love that about my younger children, they are
free like that. She thinks it is like a museum and in away it is. A
lifetime of living on display. I am humbled then because she doesn't see
it like I do at all. She sees the life and love and years and
treasures. I start to see it like that when she brings me a golden bell
and shows me a beautiful old doll. I quit seeing the dust lining the
shelves and the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling fan and papers piled
high. I see it through the eyes of my 7 year old and I think Paul and
Miss Dot are the lucky ones for sure. Paul asks me if I sing and I tell
him that I love to, he hands me a red hymnal and he says it is his favorite
book. I skim through and I see where he has written dates and notes
about many songs, "1975" says one "praise the Lord for this song" in a
mans handwriting. So may years of songs to love and sing and remember. I
hum a little of Marching to Zion and he says "do you hear it Miss Dot?
She sings beautifully!" and they both listen. I am reminded that this is
life for them, these 2 little old people who were once here where I am
now many years ago. Who wished to stop time and were worried about what
was next and who sang songs that kept them grounded and feeling the
spirit and finding freedom. I should mark music in the book like that
with dates like a journal of life; only in song. They blessed me more
than words while we sweat in their hot kitchen with papers and cans piled
high and Kalani twirling through the hidden treasure, seeing it
beautiful. We sang Happy Birthday to Miss Dot before we left and she
laughed while we clapped. We left with them promising to pray and me
promising brownies for Miss Dot since she never got a cake. I think this
loving our neighbors as ourselves is working. It is opening my eyes and
giving me music.
1 comment:
Eve, welcome back to BlogSpot!!!!
from my heart to yours, Jen
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