I look forward to these blooming every year.
I’m not really a collector. I don’t have a box full of inaugural TY Beanie Babies, a set of books with stamps from every era in American history, racks of tiny silver spoons, or a refrigerator covered with magnets from every state in the U.S. But, what I do love to collect are plants from the yards of my friends and loved ones. Throughout my yard I have created beds that are filled with plants given to me over the years by people I hold dear. And I can, with very few exceptions, recount who gave each one to me. There are tiger lilies and bleeding hearts in the shade that came from my mother-in-law. The sedum outside my kitchen window, that feeds the house finches & blooms lavender in the autumn, has been divided several times — it also came from her. But, not only did they come from her, they came from the house that we knew and loved so well, and has since been sold and passed on to another family to love. Some history there. The ferns and sweet william, the hosta and absolutely glorious pink lily of the valley came from Aunt Beth. The memories of being at her house (with the most beautiful back yard I’ve ever been in) have come along with these plants that bloom each spring. The rhubarb plants that overtook the children’s garden and needed to be moved to the side yard were a gift from our current neighbors. The stella d’oro daylilies came from my neighbor, Asha. She gave me some dozen of these beautiful plants several years ago when she tired of the dead heading and upkeep. Where as they used to live around her patio, they now line the bed in which our tomatoes grow. Shortly after my mother passed away some years ago, my friend Heather wrote me a check, telling me that I was to buy some flowers for my yard in memory of my mother. I did just that: notably, the Halfway To Arkansas Blue. It reminds me of my mother’s huge affection for the south and her travels there. That plant has grown and been divided, and has been passed on to grow in the yards of some of my friends. Of course, there are many starters that I’ve purchased. Heirloom violets and delphiniums, shasta daisies and lupines, wild geranium and phlox, forget me nots and salvia…I love them all and look forward to being able to share them with friends in the years to come. But, I cherish the history that comes with the living, thriving gifts given to me by loved ones. Plants that came from people they loved. Plants and flowers that bloomed in yards of houses where memories were made and lives were lived. Plants that grew and flourished under the care of my loved ones. And because of that care and sweet generosity, they now provide the animals I love with food and protection. They beautify my yard and will be part my story, my family’s story. And, my yard, my days, and my seasons are lovelier for it.
You know, some days are all smiles & laughter, backyard bouquets & Pinterest gems, sunshine & success. Other days? Other days are like today. Ones pretty much the opposite of the aforementioned. Sure, we DID listen to a couple Sparkle Stories and discover the local jazz station on the radio. There was some phonics & math. But overall, it was flat. out. hard. The kind of day that would make you question whether or not you were really truly (for REAL) cut out for this parenting thing, if you could, in fact, find your way out of the dense fog that had overtaken your brain and left you with barely cohesive fragments of thought that could have no hope of posing such a question, let alone answering it. The kind of day that lays waste to peace and threatens you with the fear of a repeat performance tomorrow. Days like this can wear you down and try to steal your hope. I’m not feeling crazy hopeful or cheery tonight. Not always easy to admit, but it’s where I’m at. Pretty darned tired, actually. Feeling rather directionless and quite unmotivated at bedtime (children’s, not my own) I wandered around the kitchen and finally found myself loading the dishwasher and doing a huge mess of hand-washables. Then I made chocolate ice cream and molten lava cakes, and whipped up some mint ice cream too, just in case. But then none of it sounded good at all. So, there it sat.
I ended up in the glider in the corner of my bedroom, you know, finally letting the tears come. I’m accustomed to looking for the beauty and the beloved around me. The sound of the cars going by on the street is lovely, as is the shadow of a branch on my window, silhouetted by a neighbor’s back porch light. The ever moving and changing shapes on my armoire, created by the headlights of the passing cars. The somewhat lulling sound of the heat racing through the vents. And when your nerves are raw, everything is visceral. Tonight, that’s a good thing. I find myself drawn to the flameless candle in a glass jar across the room from me. It springs to life every night around 8:00. There is something even warmer and endearing about it tonight. It reminds me of all sorts of happy, and I’m grateful. Thankful for something to focus on, to see the beauty in at the end of a day that one might call forgettable, if it weren’t at all so.
Needing to dig deep for solace tonight. Somewhere deep down, under the layers of frustration, fear, and discouragement (which can, indeed, take hold sometimes) roars the truth that God works ALL things for the good of those He’s called, and He never wastes pain. He promises rest to all who are weary and burdened, they need but come. Praying in the quiet darkness (which is never truly dark) that God would bring rest to those in this household, renew our strength & encourage, (grow us,) and bring new mercies with the morning. Missing my loved ones as they sleep; always strangely desperate for them on the nights following days filled with strife. Even in my need for solitude, still my heart stretches and my arms ache for them.
Parenting. *shakes head* The struggle is REAL.
Thankful for the working out that comes with 26 letters arranged & formed, and a space of my own carved out on the Internet, in which to wrestle, heave, and sigh.