Little Gifts

The daffodils are done blooming at our house now, but before they were gone I took a picture of my neighbor’s daffodil bed as we see it from our living room window. She planted them all along the side of her house when she redid the flowerbeds quite a few years ago. Later on, before Mom died, she mentioned to me in passing when I’d complemented her on them that she’d planted those specific bulbs all along that side because Mom had once mentioned how much she liked daffodils and she knew Mom would be able to see them from her living room chair. Now, when I see her daffodils every spring, I immediately think of Mom and the quiet gift my neighbor gave her.

Mom had been in that same chair a couple years before when my neighbor’s husband fell backwards off of scaffolding, narrowly missing a cement pad and pile of lumber below. I had been at school but Mom told me later that she saw it happening and barely had the time to breathe the prayer, “Mary, Jesus, & Joseph” before he landed. She watched as family came around the corner and helped him into the truck to head for the ER. When he heard about Mom’s reaction, he said her prayer was what saved him and later sent word to her to pray again, because he had to go back up on the scaffolding to finish the job he’d started.

I guess the story doesn’t stop there, either. A year or so after that, when Mom found herself admitted into the hospital and headed to surgery for a pacemaker, one of my neighbor’s daughters called her dad at work to tell him it was his turn to pray for Grammy. This 6-and-a-half foot master mechanic stopped the meeting he was in and had everyone bow their heads.

Planting daffodils was a simple, thoughtful thing to do. No fanfare, no media hype, no acts of congress; just a quiet little deed blooming from an open heart. That’s what all those actions were. Simple choices made by one person for another that naturally rippled out and touched others as well. The little things we do really can matter quite a lot.

The Power of Applesauce

 

I cried in my applesauce today. (Is that a country western song?) It was a silly thing to do, but, never-the-less, there I was, sitting at my desk with silent tears slipping down as I tried to mentally deny it was happening. Thankfully, I'd stayed in my classroom during lunch rather than joining the staff in the teachers' room.

 

Even sillier was the fact that it was actually the applesauce, itself, that triggered my reaction. I hardly ever eat it, but after some dental work the day before it was one of the few requisite "soft foods" convenient to bring for my lunch. Perhaps it was the subconscious acknowledgement that the jar it came from was one recently opened for the express purpose of using it up before its expiration date since it had been purchased before Mom died. Indeed, it was her preferred variety, made from yellow delicious apples, sweetened, but no cinnamon. The last one I ever bought for her - never opened until now.

 

As I raised the spoon to my mouth, I was instantly sitting in front of Mom, watching her take a bite of applesauce just after I had placed a pill on it. We had gone through this slow, deliberate ritual every day for a year and a half. I thought, how ironic that I'm finishing her last jar of applesauce and will have no need of more. The prickle of tears began. Stop this, It's silly. I can't do this here.

 

With the next resolute spoonful to my mouth, I found myself spooning it to Betty and watching her smile back at me with her eyes. Now the tears were undeniable and unstoppable. The few minutes it took for me to search out a Kleenex was all the time I allowed the sorrow to flow, then I blew my nose and pulled myself back together.

 

Life must go on and it does. It's best that it does, too, because the alternative is to let our lives stagnate and with it our ability to cope and grow.

 

Who would have thought that applesauce could have such power? It won't always, of course, but today certainly caught me off guard. And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow it won't be in my lunch bag.

Giving Thanks a Whole New Way

We were seated around a table, but it didn’t seem like Thanksgiving. There was no turkey. No ham. No stuffing or gravy. No rolls, mashed potatoes, or pumpkin pie. No parades or football games dominated the room and neither snow nor frozen fog nor falling leaves created the ambiance of autumn. In fact, if Don hadn’t said, “Happy Thanksgiving!” after we said the blessing, I wouldn’t even have remembered it was that day. But it was and it was enough. More than enough.

 

I knew a priest once who turned down invitations for celebrating that holiday with others. He said he only celebrated Thanksgiving alone, feasting on just one baked potato and nothing else the whole day. It seems there had been a rough time in his life when that’s all he had to eat one Thanksgiving and, because he was thankful to have had even that to nourish him he chose to show his appreciation to God by celebrating the same way every year afterwards. I thought at the time how odd that was to purposely celebrate alone, but maybe it was, rather, a lesson for me that the holidays are what we choose to make them.

 

I am discovering that my holidays are mostly about people and attitude; specifically, mine. Places, traditions, food, and decorations are lovely, enriching additions to special celebrations, but sharing the day with someone I care about is what really creates the joy for me. So, when Don brought it to our attention that we were embarking on our Thanksgiving meal, all it took was looking around the table to bring the holiday feeling to life.

 

 

So, this year we dined on lasagna instead of turkey, lounged on beach chairs instead of in arm chairs, and ended the night listening to Gangnam Style (http://youtu.be/mIQToVqDMb8) instead of the season’s first Christmas carols. And I couldn’t have been more thankful!