That which is "yes"

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of allnothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

ee cummings

They are always in bloom on Mother's Day. I stand outside on my deck early this morning, a knitted shawl around my shoulders, a mug of tea in my hands, and I marvel at the white daffodils, their yellow faces pointing up to the sun, that mange to bloom every year despite my neglect. Unlike my grandmother, who planted them by the fence on the Mother's Day after Bonnie was born, I do not have a green thumb. For years I told my husband and children never to give me plants for Mother's Day because it was, for anything blooming in a pot, a death sentence.

But my grandmother could make flowers bloom from concrete. The day I brought my infant daughter home was a Mother's Day and my parents and grandparents descended on my house with cake and dinner and a pot of daffodils. They were, Grandmom told me, "Narcissus Ice Follies". The name meant nothing to me. But now, forty-one years later, I am still greeted by their cheerful faces, the seedlings from the original plant having kept up the heritage of their parent.

I turn to go back inside where it is warmer, my head full of thoughts of Mother's Day past. There is no smell of burnt toast and eggs this morning, no dishes piled in the sink from Ron's attempt to make me breakfast in bed. There is no ill-chosen gift in the wrong size or the wrong color waiting to be opened on the dining room table, no card he would have forgotten to sign still in the Walmart bag. Allen --although he has promised me doughnuts this morning--is still asleep. Darling daughter--who knows me well--has sent me a T-shirt proclaiming, "It's what I do! I read and I know things!" and some brightly colored yarn. Perhaps Dennis, oldest son, will call later on.

It is my first Mother's Day without Ron. I am missing the smell of burnt toast more than  I could have imagined. I am trying to remember what he gave me last year. "Something one of the aids would have gotten," my daughter has reminded me. Ron was long past being able to leave the house by then. I think about sorting through my jewelry box; was it the turquoise earrings Veronica had ordered? Or the butterfly bracelet Phyllis got?

The sight of the daffodils stops me. "White daffodils" my grandmother said before she took the spade she had brought with her and went to plant them," mean rebirth. They are a good flower for your new baby."

Rebirth. We are in the midst of a pandemic, with people sheltering in their houses and most of us working from home. We do not know how long it will last. But we have hope that one day soon, the bans on gathering will be lifted. We will meet again for worship and family celebrations. I think of the words of Isaiah 43:2: "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with me; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou wilt not be burnt; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee." God is still with us.

God is still with me. Ron has been reborn into a new and eternal life. His heart, so damaged by infections and surgeries, was a good heart. A loving heart. A kind heart. He has left his heart with me.

And I, too, am being reborn. No longer the care-giver to a critically ill man, there are new paths for me to walk. I watch the daffodils lift up their trumpet shaped heads and proclaim, "This is YES!" Yes, to life, yes to beauty, yes to what lies ahead, lifted from the no of sickness and death.

The ears of my ears are awake. The eyes of my eyes are open.

Calm and Quiet

 O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
    my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
    too great and too marvelous for me.
 But I have calmed and quieted and my soul.  Psalm 131:1-2
    

Faintly, I heard my brother calling my name but the ocean was roaring in my ears and I had no idea--none at all--where Harvey's voice came from. We'd been jumping waves at the ocean, spending a beautiful summer day at the beach with our cousins, when a huge roller headed towards us. My brother dove into the wave and let it carry him to shore, while I was caught in it's trough and pulled under, scraped across the rocky bottom, salt water burning my eyes and nose.

I couldn't think. I couldn't pull myself up. I flailed my arms helplessly, certain that at the tender age of 9 I was drowning. Within seconds, though, the crest peaked and threw me onto the pebbled shore.

Suddenly, all was quiet. The water receded. I felt the warm sun on my face and shoulders. I felt the soft sand beneath my body. The shadow of my brother fell across me. "You alright, Linda?"

I nodded and he extended a hand to help me up. "Not yet," I said. "In a minute." The ocean, beloved haven of my childhood, was no longer something I understood.

I'll be frank,  I do not understand any of what is happening in the world right now. I do not know how the corona virus, far across the ocean, mutated from an animal to a person. I do not know how it managed to cross continents and reach our shores. And I do not know how to stop it.

And before I can begin to wrap my mind around it, adjust to a new sort of normal and explain it all to my autistic son, I just need a minute. 

Perhaps you've needed a minute these past weeks as news about the COVID 19 pandemic poured out of our television sets and our social media accounts. Perhaps you've needed to take a deep breath and slow your heart rate, stay for a moment on the soft sand of the beach, still and quiet while the shouting noises of the crowds echoed around you.

Just a minute, Lord. One more minute.

Like David, we need to calm our souls.

Psalm 131 illustrates how David, at a tumultuous time in his life, came to a place of quiet and peace. Scholars disagree on what might have been the circumstances he found himself in: was he running and hiding from Saul, or was he responding to his wife Michal who accused him of undignified behavior when he danced before God? Nonetheless, David needed to deny his own pride and display his willingness to simply serve God (Enduring Word). Verse 1 shows us David's humble attitude, his complete submission to Yahweh. As Jesus illustrated in Luke 14:8-11, David was willing to accept a lowly position.

Despite the circumstances, verse 3 expresses David's enduring hope in God, the satisfaction he finds in the Lord. Notice that he says, "from this time forth and forever more."

I find great comfort in that, in the certain knowledge of "forever more."

In just eight weeks, the world we all knew has drastically changed. Eight more weeks may see another change. And you might be, like me, thinking that you should do something great and sacrificial at this time, some huge gesture that will benefit all mankind. You may think that the little you can offer--phoning a neighbor or taking food to an elderly parent or friend--is only a small drop of water. Take a minute, friend. Rest yourself in God.

Laying on the beach in Rehoboth, letting the warm sun wash over me, I spent moments resting. My brother stood patiently nearby, ready to assist me. And, eventually, I held out my hand to him and he pulled me up. I went back to the umbrella where my aunt waited with a towel to comfort me. It took me a few days before I was ready to tackle the ocean again, to see it as a friend not an enemy. No one rushed me. In the meantime, I played along the surf and built sandcastles with my cousins. One day, though, I was ready to return to the surf that I loved.

One day, we too will return to the world we once knew. We will leave our homes and gather together and praise God for his deliverance. We will "hope in the Lord, from this time forth and evermore." I pray we will take the lessons from this time with us.

So, for now, take a deep breath.  It's okay. We're going to be okay.

We just need a minute or two.