Who Goes Before You?

What do we leave behind for the next generation and those that follow? What sort of memories will they clutch dear, re-visit at random times? What photographs will never fade or diminish in quality, so precious they will always be. The words we speak, will they be quoted, imprinted into future minds like a favorite refrain? I thought about this while picking raspberries yesterday in our back yard. Reaching deep into the bramble, I gently plucked a ripe berry from its stem, leaving behind the not-quite-reddish ones, they needed more time. Time and all the nuances the word entails filtered through my thoughts and I know I'm not alone with these ponderings. Thoughts of my oldest niece in her youth, many years ago she picked the berries for me, perched on a ladder to reach the highest. We don't need a ladder now, the bushes have somehow shrunk in height, causing me to stretch my spine taller, measuring myself against time. Husband and I continued our task, him, reaching low, allowing me the easier job. I thought about our old neighbor, how I always remembered to gift him with a container, he loved raspberries and I missed him all over again, as if he were leaning on his shovel, white hair gone askew, taking a break from hard yard work. I thought about who planted the tender shoots, watered and cared for, enjoying summer's harvest and they both now are gone. Carrying a large half-filled Tupperware container inside, the memories, they danced in my mind like a ballerina pirouetting in soft satin slippers, grace abundant. Maybe approaching a mile-stone birthday has caused this reflection, realizing that time passes for everyone and how to spend the moments? George Denison Prentice wrote: "Memory is not so brilliant as hope, but it is more beautiful and a thousand times more true." Maybe it's more about making the memories, shifting current time into creating tender and unforgettable remembrances. To slow, in the moments, in the mind, in the hurriedness and madness of living. Carefully measuring the moments, like the miniature hour-glass grandson's received from the dentist, grains of sand count the minute, but the minute is counted slowly. Perhaps it doesn't matter who planted the raspberries, or what container is used to house the ripest, or even if grandson plucks the green ones believing they taste delicious. Can I truly set another pace, revering time rather than the racing against? Can the moments be processed like black-and-white photographs; images and scenes developed gradually, snippets of the whole picture revealed in diverse shades of gray, delightful it is to witness the unfolding. I have a store box of memories to keep me company, and like a jewelry box filled with gold and silver most of them involve people. I hear voices and laughter, songs and jokes, faded photographs, curled at the edges. I see writing in old cursive and books with names on inside, thoughtful dedication. And I see a moment now without pretense and haste, where berries conjure moments of unfathomable grace.

A Sea of Hope

He thought he might see a whale, or maybe a shark or two, unblinkingly grandson announced before we made our way to the Oregon Coast. Oh the mind of a child where plethora of possibilities exist true, where innocence and imagination infuse the small frame with life-pumping hope. I nodded a yes, all the while my eyes pinned on that ring of hope a child so easily grasps. At the beach that weekend there was not a whale or shark sighting. No great leaps of mammoth black-and-white shapes arcing above cold, salty ocean blue. No gray sharks swimming laps around unsuspecting fisherman.
"But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have?" We don't know where the path will lead, but we know the One who paves the way, and this everlasting hope never disappoints.

A fisherman stood on a small hill above the sand, dipping a mammoth wand into liquid concoction, blowing translucent bubbles into early morning atmosphere. Me, I wanted to keep walking at our steady pace, uninterrupted, stepping away from this delightful display. Husband, he pulled his iPhone from his coat pocket and ushered me right into the tiny miracle. Hope, it moves into the moment like a silent dance partner.

This boy who wanted to see whales and sharks, he found something else instead. A castle made of sand, a feather, and random sea shells. And a father who never gave up hope on crafting something beautiful out of the ordinary.  

We stop to notice, to focus, and in the midst of the grit and the mundane, we smile knowingly, and take the next step a little more hopefully.

 

And sometimes, all it takes to lift the weary spirit, to garner one more breath, is unbridled hope emanating from the beautiful eyes of another.

 

Everything that is done in the world is done by hope.

~Martin Luther~