Heat Wave

It’s mid-summer and the weatherman warns of excessive heat on the East Coast. As political ads begin to fill the airways, we’re still in the midst of a deadly pandemic, something that’s changed our lives drastically in the past five months.

Notable to me is the great divide that marks our lives. In a phone conversation with a new acquaintance I can tell in the 1st conversation which TV news he is watching, just by the way he speaks of the many riots occurring in our cities. Another friend banters away on FB about peaceful protests in our cities.

A kindly older man in my neighborhood walks daily, always with a stretchy mask covering most of his face and neck, while others stroll along in groups, wearing no masks, laughing and shouting. A lady enters the grocery store and cleans hands and grocery cart handle with the sanitizing cloth provided at the door. Up and down the aisles, she fastidiously cleans her hands again after touching each item.

Several shoppers follow the arrows and 6-feet markers diligently while others move around as usual with no attention to social distancing. A tall food rep in jeans and t-shirt stacks shelves with pretzels wearing a small mask that has slid off his nose. He certainly doesn’t understand the reason for masks or, if he does, isn’t taking it seriously. I find his exposed nose repulsive and quickly side step the situation and head for the cashier.

Young mothers are nearly hysterical in their online conversations re: home schooling curricula, hybrid models, or simply returning to a normal in-person school schedule like the good old days.

COVID relief should include tax benefits for certain people or COVID relief is strictly about victims of the economic shut-down. The police force should be reformed or defunded, depending on your side in this polarizing conflict. It goes on…and I’m sure you’re surrounded by it also.

How sad that we can’t cross the divide and tackle the common enemy together, a pandemic that is unprecedented in our time. We could commit to joining forces in dialog and creative effort, to practicing safety precautions prescribed by experts, and to providing quality care to all who are sick and vulnerable. Surely then we would gain the upper hand in this challenge.

Indeed, we’re having a heat wave in more ways than one!

Evening in Advent

Invitations had been sent for a little soiree after the Christmas concert, to be held at my house. Musicians always like to relax together after a performance. “What a great audience! Did you see the little boy in the elf costume? Santa was especially talkative this year.”

Wassail punch would be warm and festive on a cold December night, along with assorted sandwiches, my usual Polynesian crab dip, and the gorgeous chocolate cake I had been eyeing for months at the local bakery. It would serve at least twenty people, so this was the right occasion. I had never dared to purchase it before, but trusted it to taste delicious.

The house was ready: tree glistening by the fireplace, five stockings hanging from the mantel, and candles in place. Menu items were prepared and arranged on Christmas platters and bowls, with tiny labels on the dining room table to mark where each would be placed.

Then the snow began, just a dusting at first. It was beautiful, and I enjoyed watching birds at the feeder by the kitchen. Performance clothes were laid out and a hot bath waiting, when the email message arrived. “Concert CANCELLED due to inclement weather.”

Of course, this was a good decision for the sake of safety, as two children’s choirs were performing with the orchestra and many people would be driving on treacherous roads. As for the soiree, my house was ready, food in place, and Wassail punch fully prepared, just waiting to be warmed. A final to-do list lay on the kitchen counter—just three simple items. The beautiful chocolate cake sat on a silver platter anticipating hungry guests.

The evening turned out to be quiet and reflective, actually quite enjoyable. I was tired after all that work, and the snow continued to fall in its peaceful loveliness. I decided that getting ready for the post-concert gathering had been a meaningful process. And then it came to mind.

Preparing for a party is like Advent—anticipation of something very special, a time to prepare our hearts to receive the gift of the Christ Child. God’s own son would enter our lives, be a guest at our table, enjoy our company and the humble offerings we have for Him, and turn our lives around. He would impact the world as none other has done.

Fortunately, there was no cancellation of His birth so many years ago. Regardless of weather conditions and over-booking at the inns in Bethlehem, the Baby Jesus arrived safely. And the musicians performed. “Suddenly there was with the angel a heavenly host praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among men.’ ” (Luke 2:14)  Now that was a celebration, and it has been going on for more than two thousand years.

On that recent snowy night, one dear friend braved the weather and came by. We made a dinner out of the holiday party foods and cut two slivers from the scrumptious-looking chocolate cake. It was a perfect Advent evening!

Precious Seeds

The sunflower is looking better. This is no ordinary plant. It grew from the seeds my mother gave me one bright summer day a few weeks before she died. She moved precariously that day, but with the stability of a walker we navigated safely through the large automatic door of her nursing village. We both squinted in the bright sunlight. And then began a tour of her outdoor world: raised bed gardens that residents could reach, bird houses and feeders gathered near large windows, neatly mulched beds by the porch filled with colorful zinnias and all kinds of hosta. Bright white-painted rocking chairs moved in the breeze. A pretty wooden bench beckoned to us, so we sat and rested a bit. I loved those times with my mother.
Then we moved along further and found the sunflowers. It was already late summer and several of the plate-like bursts of color had faded and presented seeds. She ceremoniously reached out to pluck off a few and gave them to me. “Here. You take these. You can plant them in your garden.” She was reaching right into my heart but only later did I fully understand. You see, my mother and I shared a love of gardens, beautiful flowers and herbs, and the practice of cultivating something lovely.
I have never forgotten that day. With time, sadness came as she became ill and eventually left us. But I kept those seeds in a little baggie, a few brown pods that she had gently pressed into my hand from hers, for the day when I would plant them. The time came; the seeds found their way into my little “Secret Garden” and one robust leafy sunflower plant emerged weeks later. Before long it produced tiny buds that grew and grew.
Then one morning as I visited the garden the buds were missing! A deer from the woods nearby had likely smelled the scent of those luscious young morsels and had himself a delicious dinner during the night. My first order of the day was a stop at the garden shop. Before long, a fine spray to safely deter deer and other critters became part of the daily garden routine.
Thankfully, the precious plant has produced more buds. This lovely reminder of my dear mother speaks to me of her courage and resilience, her beauty and strength. The sunflower will live on, along with the memories, and I will guard it with greatest affection. She too lives on in her Heavenly home, where she is surely enveloped in the brilliance of a magnificent field of sunflowers.

Memories….

…….. of springtime as a young girl bring to mind images of my mother in the kitchen working at the little black featherweight sewing machine. Springtime meant Easter was approaching and we girls needed Easter dresses. Mother always seemed to find beautiful fabric that had been tucked away in a closet or wooden chest along with patterns for fancy dresses with flowing skirts, puffy sleeves, sashes, and bows that were just the right size or nearly right. She was very skilled at both altering patterns and sewing.

As Easter approached there were late night “parties” in our kitchen—pressing darts, setting in sleeves, basting lace, and measuring and hand stitching hems. My sister and I helped as best we could but mother did most of the work. When the dresses neared completion we tried them on for fit and then climbed onto a dining room chair and stood patiently as she moved slowly around us with a pin cushion and yardstick. Standing still was important with those prickly pins all around our legs!

A new dress for Easter was only part of the project; a flowery straw hat, black patent leather Mary Jane shoes, and white gloves completed the outfit. Our mother was a smart and practical woman and so we passed the hats down, if they hadn’t been sat upon, and  purchased the shoes at a special spring sale. However, in all her frugality she put aside the cost factor for the final item. There was no skimping on the beautiful fresh white gloves. Indeed, it was the gloves that added an extra touch of elegance and beauty to the lovely new dress, colorful hat, and shiny black shoes.

My how times have changed! The once-popular featherweight sewing machines are now found mostly in antique shops, little girls wear dresses and shoes made thousands of miles away in factories where the workers are children themselves, and white cotton gloves are worn only by magicians. Mother was very proud of her girls in their Easter finery as we sat together in our usual church pew, sang joyful hymns, and listened to our father’s sermon. She too looked beautiful and must have been very happy……. However, she would have had trouble pumping gas on the way to church in her pretty white gloves, if indeed a gas station had been open. Yes, things have changed.