Recently I re-visited the past in a most surprising way. It happens like that, the past sneaking up unexpectedly, like when you first notice your child's pair of eyes, deep set and crystal blue, a mirror image of your own parent. During the Fourth of July while eagerly waiting for dusk to settle in, our blond boy grandson grew a bit antsy. In an attempt to keep two small boys occupied, I retrieved an old gem from the cupboard. While I brushed off the dust, daughter asked, "Where did you get that?" A nostalgic pause. Memories of Drive-In movies, us with grape Kool-Aid stamping upper lips, hide-and-go-seek with neighborhood kids well into inky darkness, a house humming with chaos. I loved this tea set and I had hoped you would too. "Oh, I played with this when I was little." Lifting the lid I surveyed the contents of the box. Daughter did not remember this set, the only toy besides Barbie's I saved from childhood, this treasure of mine that escaped Goodwill runs, garage sales, moves and husband's cleaning frenzies. Separating old faded tissue, I inhaled fresh waves of grace, a spiritual nudge from above. The boys exclaimed happy, dug into the fragile, and clinked sea-blue glass stamped with Made in Japan on the white bottom. A breath lodged in my throat. Oh no! Don't break it please! Please don't ruin my precious dishes! However, witnessing pure bliss pasted on those creamy faces and my daughter's joy, the pent-up breath released into all that surrounding exuberance. After placing my order for black tea which blond boy served up as vanilla, I rested in the moment, watching this next generation enjoy a thread from my youth. How did it survive unscathed after all these years? This protected box housing childhood gift, this cherished piece of childhood, I marveled at the wonder of such pleasure.
The next day, stooping over to put the dishes away, I noticed two words stamped on the front of the box. They jumped, shimmied, cart-wheeled right off the cardboard, an epiphany to unwrap. My childhood God watched me sternly, judged every move, wagged a finger at mistakes, spelled perfection in capital letters.
Looking long and hard at those black capitol letters, all bold yet gentle, the epiphany, it slowly began to unwrap, one opaque tissue at a time. Two words, a nod from heaven, a yes to quaking fears. Hand Decorated. Not my quaking hand, not the foreign hand from Japan. His hands, they paint pretty over all the sticky messiness, they heal, tending to the scars, tenderly replacing fear with love and acceptance, brush-strokes of promise. And the past has a way of forgiving itself. Over time, beautiful flashes exquisite from within, all adorned in grace, the colors designing precious, all humble and thankful hearts ping outward, thank you, thank you. Practicing kindness, unveiling the precious, to self and mankind.
Maybe it's when the past sits down right in front of you, conjuring up recollections of that person you used to be, the one whose hand quivered while pouring, could that be the moment? I began to carefully put everything back in the box, and for a few elongated moments, I paused in the memory. And that young girl whose fist clamped tight, who loved this toy, she helped put away blue dishes, reminded me to loosen grip on tiny glass handle, bowing into the precious.
I would like to have more tea parties with my grandchildren, watch them tussle over cups and eat cookies, splaying crumbs fun, unrestrained, playful joy. And if they uncover a toy from their own past one day, may their reminisces sing sweet, grown hands all steady, preciously cloaked in His grace.
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