Echoes From the Past

He asked my last name, this man I first met the year I turned seventeen. "The same as yours," I said, and waited for the surprise to lift those gray eyebrows. "Oh, is that so!" A few minutes passed while I chatted with fellow residents in his foster home. The question, he inquired again and I answered like I had numerous times before, having long ago understood the mind plays tricks on elderly and all fault and blame is finally laid to rest. In peace. "The same as yours." His chin cocked a bit, a puzzled expression crossed his deeply lined face. "Is that so!" And so it goes, this attempt to reach my ninety-two-year-old father-in-law, to draw him out, to listen intently for those echoes from the past that leap unexpectedly into the present moment. It's in the present, the here and now, super-power that quickens heart beat and floods the soul with unabashed joy.

 

The seeds, we plant in our conversations, we share this next generation of his, his great-grandchildren and tell him their names, starting over each time, much like an Etch A Sketch. And the harmonica's from Germany that makes music in our home now, husband handed one over for him to hold on Christmas day.

Those tiny miracles we pray to see, the ones that God strategically places before we rise from deep sleep, they cause heart to flutter quick and eyes mist over and we watched one unfold. My father-in-law did remember a song on Christmas day, the notes rose tentative at first, gaining momentum with each breath puffed into his old musical instrument. Husband sang a few lines, German words that none of us knew. He made music and joy flooded the room.

I noticed it later, when our house stilled and white lights twinkled beauty. This box that housed his harmonica all these long years. An echo from the past ushered into this present, in God's own time, a miracle to behold. Holding the empty box in palm of my hand, this immeasurable gift, I felt the lightness, and I understood. Not all presents are neatly wrapped and placed under the Christmas tree. Other gifts, the ones that come unadorned, unrequested, they might be the most precious of all, virgin they are in simplicity, easy to miss. Unless the eyes are always, always, searching for the light. 



Everything God does is love-even when we do not understand him.

~Mother Basilea Schlink~

The Healing Power Of A Mushroom

She prayed for compassion, a deeper understanding, empathy for her patients' suffering. She prayed, and then one day she ate a mushroom. "Six weeks ago," she said, "and four days spent in the hospital."  Each day afterward, a challenge to perform even the most mundane activities. This, a vibrant, fit and active woman. A business owner, a healer without health insurance. Some gifts, they lay deep and hidden, layered they are with pain and hardship, sickness and loss, and once in a while, severe reaction to freshly picked mushroom.  I took a breath and asked a question, the bold and courageous probing that does warrior battle with all complaints and resentment. "So your illness, this mushroom picking crisis, it was a gift then?" Her hazel eyes lit up in perfect comprehension. "Now I understand my patients' suffering better, I can see what they  are walking through. Before, I couldn't relate to their pain." A moment's pause. "Now I can," she said. "It's the gift," I offered. "The gift was your severe illness. A blessing." Her smile widened. "I prayed for it and that's how I got it, the compassion I prayed for." I scanned the gym, at all the people trying to stay fit, to be healthy and active, to live strong. Sometimes the blessing is found through deep suffering. Maybe all we can do is wait for the fog to lift, for time and insight to dry the damp mist cloaking the eyes. E.M. Bounds once wrote: "God sees to it that when the whole man prays, in turn the whole man shall be blessed." I looked at this healer woman again, measuring my words carefully, joyfully. "Thank you for sharing." We chatted for a few minutes, and she offered helpful information on the type of mushroom she found, ways to avoid her graven mistake. I answered emphatically, "No! I prefer to buy mine at Trader Joe's, thanks." Her laughter spilled all around us. An effervescent light shone from her eyes, an understanding of such things, such things in life too lofty to understand, yet beautiful enough to give thanks for. This thought, the loftiness of it all, I clutch it tight like verses to inspiring song, and I walked away that day knowing I would never eat a freshly picked mushroom. But I would always keep searching for gifts, for the light that drapes the weakest of moments is the treasure worth watching for.