For Seniors 50+
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We are a young at heart group who love the Lord and each other
IF YOU ARE 50 or over, you are invited to join us. We meet the 1st, 3rd, and 5th Thursdays of each month at 6:00 pm in the Fireside Room for Bible study and fellowship. |
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May 2008 |
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| Orange marigolds border the brick walk. Hummingbirds dart among the honeysuckle, ignoring the bright collage of Sunday brunchers scattered about the patio of the California open-air cafe. Ten-year-old Julie slaps her menu shut and leans toward me. "Can I have the French toast, Mom?" "Looks like a large order. Can you eat it all?" "Of course!" Of course. Glancing around, I decide that I must bring Mom here on her next visit. But I am soon stabbed by reality. No. Not next time. Not ever again. For six months before that sunny morning, a stroke snatched my mother's life away. Six months. Yet, never have I felt the loss more poignantly. No more of Mom’s visits, with our searches for antique store treasures. No more chocolate éclairs from out-of-the-way bakeries. No more browsing the used bookstore with the fat yellow cat in the windowsill. A sinking feeling washes over me as I recall an article from years before, and the author's own realization that "suddenly, I was nobody's daughter." I dab at wet eyes, and motion the waitress for a second cup of coffee. My thoughts go back to my childhood home on the morning after Mom's memorial service. I had slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the cool hallway linoleum to the room where my sister spent the night. She was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. As she turned we shared painful glances. Then I crossed the room and suddenly, in the fourth decade of our lives, we were hugging; big sister and little sister, tears mingling. "It's just that, that this is the end of something, Jan." "An era. It's the end of an era," she solemnly replied. We ate breakfast at the kitchen table, the wooden square containing memories of hundreds of pumpkin carvings, valentines, and Easter eggs drying on newspaper. Out the window, Mom's summertime garden always burst into a riot of yellow, pink, white and blue. At her memorial service, I had read her favorite poem, "Daffodils."* After our rolls and coffee, Jan and I "did the dishes" together, she washing and me drying as in the old days. |
Then it was time to divide the memories. The rocker for you, the cedar chest for me. You can have Grandpa's photo if I can have Aunt Millie's. My Jennifer would like grandma's cruet collection. Would her Mary like the cream pitchers? A few days later we held an estate sale, and finally there were no decisions left except the giant one of whether to sell the old house. In a quiet moment I escaped to the overstuffed, faded rose chair in the living room. I curled my legs underneath me as I had done hundreds of times as a child with the Sunday Funnies. But today, as I searched my mind for ways to be strong in this new phase of my life, I recalled a verse from the Book of Ecclesiastes,* "There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven...a time to weep and a time to laugh." Perhaps I needn't be strong. Not just yet. So I wept, letting tears blur my view of family pictures on the wall. * * * The waitress’s return pulls me back to the present. Julie is right, she's finished all her French toast plus the melon. Her brown eyes sparkle. "Mom? Earth calling Mom. Earth calling Mom. Are you here, Mom? Come in, come in." A smile tugs at my lips. "Honey, would you like to stop at the new toy store on the way home?" "Would I! And when we get home, do you want to hear my new piano piece?" "Wouldn't miss it." As we rise to leave I take a deep breath of the honeysuckle-scented air. From high in a tree, a mockingbird sings. Shafts of sunlight give the diners a dappled effect, as of a painting by Renoir. A new poignancy fills me. Not of loss, but of the sights and smells and sounds of life. There is a time for everything. Yesterday, a time to weep. Today, a time to laugh. Clearly, it is a time for life. *Daffodils poem by William Wordsworth *Eccl. 3:1 and 4 V |
| For May we have another guest author, Karen Strand, a freelance writer, who lives in Lacey with her husband Paul |
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