Blog

Yes, it’s true. I’ve let myself go. It started with the quarantine in March when I began working from home on a full time basis.

I quickly grabbed a birthday card for my brother, Brent, on the way to our aunt’s funeral. She was my father’s sister, and her passing left him as the lone survivor of their immediate family. Feeling bad that Brent’s birthday was on the same day as this very sad occasion, I sought for something meaningful to write that would remove the somber note of the day.

While preparing dinner one evening not too long ago, I went to retrieve something from the pantry and made an unexpected discovery.

A meditation on spring.

“A table has been set before me, and the bounty that I feast on is not food but fellowship.”

I’m not a brave person. Never have been. My mama tells a story of me as a young child of about four or five years old standing at the edge of Tomlinson’s pool looking into the water then backing away and proclaiming matter-of-factly that I wasn’t “big enough” yet to go in for a swim.

My fourteen-month-old grandson and I sat inside the front door watching cars go by. Each time one passed he would smile with excitement and say something unintelligible in his sweet baby language. I watched him, taking in the sound of his voice and the blueness of his eyes.  Then I noticed his hair and how curly it’s gotten recently, and I remembered my own towheaded baby whose cottony curls attracted everyone’s attention.

We buried my Aunt Louise a few days ago. It was a cold sunny day, one of the few we’ve had in this new decade. I hadn’t seen much of her in recent years. When I did see her, I wasn’t sure whether she knew who I was or not.

The Christmas of 2017 went much the same as every other Christmas has gone for my family since my brother and I have been grown with families of our own. 

I am in a season of savoring. Slowing down and examining every mouthful, every morsel, of life. It is something I’m learning.

As the life of the tree passed before my mind’s eye, a tender sadness squeezed my chest and tears stung my eyes.  I could see that the tree was much like me.

There’s a spot on the bank of the pond in the backyard where the sun shines brightly for a short time in the early morning. It’s rays stretch low across the ground reaching over the water illuminating the ground beneath a pine tree. I find it fascinating that this place so low and obscure should be kissed by the sun before so many others that are out in the open and readily accessible.

My husband, David, recently said, “Life is moments.” This truth stuck a cord with me. I want to have more moments. Being an introvert, this requires me to be intentional in that endeavor. I must literally and figuratively kick myself out of bed to insure that I don’t miss the moments happening all around me.