I’m strolling through my garden, checking on what is coming back after a pleasant week of nourishing spring rain. I’m terrible about remembering the proper names of my perennials just by looking. I bend down, pluck a leaf between my thumbnail and pointer finger, crush it in my palms, rubbing its tenderness back and forth to squeeze out its particular oils, and breath in its tangy, unique essence. My nose recognizes its identity better than my eyes do.
I was having one of those good heart-to-heart conversations the other day with one of my sons: you know the kind! I dropped what I was doing, retreated to the back porch swing, and basked in the sound of his voice.
I’m a morning person. I’ve always been a morning person. If I wake up after the sun has already risen, I feel cheated out of a gift. My mind is sharp in the pre-dawn hours and fades gradually as the day unfolds.
I am again confused about scripture. Sometimes, Jesus said the word and people would rise up from the dead like his friend, Lazarus. Other times, Jesus insisted the person should “stretch out his hand” or “rise up” before being healed.
We tend to mark our lives by world events that change history. For me, these are: the 1967 Six Day Arab Israeli War, the Lebanese Civil War, the Twin Towers, and the Covid Pandemic. Yet, I firmly believe that our lives are actually lived for the quiet. intimate moments that mark nor our calendars, but our hearts:
My mom is passed. What I have are stories, stories stacked on top of each other: piled by my reading chair like a precarious coffee table, stories neatly categorized and displayed in albums, and stories typed and filed away as keepsake letters. Stories carry memories and connect us to each other like charms on a charm bracelet.