I Took a Picture Tonight

I took a picture tonight.
It's not artistic.
It's not pretty.

It's actually a terrible picture.

But I love it.

It's a picture of our couch.
Just our couch, sitting at the far end of our house, dimly lit and cluttered with a few pillows and one large tie blanket.

That view...

That view alone is nothing without the feelings and intangibles which I know surround it.

The clock ticking.
The quiet hum of the appliances.
The low light.
The settled, quiet feeling in my core.

That view is what I see after our communion nights are done.
The dishes have been brought to the kitchen.
The chairs slid back into their places.
Everyone else is in bed as I finish my labor of love.

And when it's finished, I take one final look back through the house to make sure I haven't missed anything.

And that is my view.
Just our couch, sitting at the far end of our house, dimly lit and cluttered with a few pillows and one large tie blanket.

No, I haven't missed anything.

When I see that view, I'm thinking about the people who just filled that couch from end to end. I'm thinking of the honest hearts and hopeful lives that utterly consume the currently empty spaces in front of my eyes. I'm feeling the peace that settles after being joined in earnest prayer. I'm hearing the calm of a house that has no fear of being alone. I'm recalling the array of Bibles and journals and notepads and laptops and phones and minds that soaked up and overflowed and contemplated and questioned and discovered and journeyed together to find purpose and direction and confirmation on that very floor.

I am blessed.

So radically blessed.

I know that not all people get attached to places, to things.
But I do.
Views. Sights. Smells.
They're mile markers.
The distance will be covered regardless, but little markers along the way remind me of where I'm going and what a beautiful road it's going to be.
This is one of those.

My mind is choosing to remember this oh-so-simple view, because wrapped up in it is the peace in my belly that is so incredibly fierce it almost overwhelms me with how expansive it is.

To use a cliche, my heart is full every time I see this view.

To be less cliche, my soul is trying to figure out what it is that's going on here... because I need to be able to carry it with me. That dimly lit couch needs to translate someday.

For now, it's perfect the way it is.

Is it Love?

"What you call 'love' isn’t actually love."

I have heard several times over the years that the love you have as a young person, especially young married people, is not actually love. Saying “I love you” actually means “I lust after you.” Saying “I love you” actually means “I love the way you make me feel.” Saying “I love you” just means “I need you.” It’s a feeling. It’s an emotion. It’s not the real thing.

I’m here to argue that it is the real thing.

Yep, you heard me right.

That is love. It’s just young love.

Would you tell me that a kitten is not a cat? Would you tell me that a seed is not a tree? Would you tell me that the baby growing in a mother’s womb is not the next world-changer?

Well, maybe not yet. But the powerful paws of a lynx are present in the tiny ball of fur still mewing for attention. The height and majesty of a mighty redwood simply need time and water to emerge from that tiny seed. The healing hands and gentle heart of a physician simply need to be nurtured and cared for to mature from the toddling child.

Young love is still love.

If it wasn’t, how could it ever grow to be “real” love?

Will I tell my child, “No, you don’t actually love me. Love is a verb. Love is an action. Love is commitment even when you don’t feel like it,” when he pauses in the middle of tossing a ball to remind me of his affection?

Will I tell my husband, “No, you just like the way I make you feel. If you really loved me, you would sacrifice more for me,” when he puts his arms around me when he knows I’m upset with him?

Would Jesus tell the repentant sinner, “No, you don’t love me, you’re still sinful and immature and need a few more years to realize just how much I’ve done for you,” when she pours out her wounded heart to Him?

No.

This is love. It’s just young love.

It’s growing. Yes, I will grant you, it is still growing and has a lot of growing up still left to do.

But don’t tell me it’s not love.

Don’t tell me this passionate, crazy, emotional, love-you/hate-you, can’t-control-it, stumbling, eager, desperate, needy, confused-and-yet-still-so-sure feeling isn’t love. Because it is.

When my passionate, intense, wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve object of desire asked me to be his wife, I tried not to be too silly about it.

I tried to maintain composure. Not be socially awkward. Keep my cool.

Because I had heard so many mature adults look down on young love. The rolled eyes. The knowing looks. The “give it a few months” comments. The dissension over emotions that couldn’t be controlled.

And so, I purposed to not be like them. I was going to be mature. I was going to have this “real love” business right from the start.

What a bunch of crap.

The problem is, you can’t have “real love” from the start. You can’t have a chicken without the egg. Come on.

So instead of enjoying the “not real love” kind of love, I stifled it. Tried to act like I was more mature than that. And didn’t really succeed at that either. (Chicken before the egg problem, remember?) And by extension, I didn’t succeed at the emotions or the maturity, just did a belly flop somewhere in the middle.

Ouch.

(a pause, a reflection)

I like going to weddings.

I like seeing silly, ridiculous love.

Because it reminds me that the love I am developing now (yes, it’s love!) shouldn’t just be an action. It should be an action. But it shouldn’t be just an action.

Love is not limited to one dimension.

Love is friendship.

Love is commitment.

Love is passion.

Love is unconditional even when conditions are set against it.

Love is an action, but that action is filled with all the depth and beauty of life-long passion. One of my favorite quotes from Mike Bickle: Lovers will out-work servants every day.

There are times in a marriage covenant to serve and stick it out and push through. But that shouldn’t be the be-all, end-all litmus test for true love. True love is intense. It is sold-out to the point of insanity.

Love isn’t giving everything there is to give, love is giving everything you have to give.

So to all you lovebirds, to all you crazy and emotional people out there, what you have is love. That is not an invitation to be frivolous or flippant with it. No, quite the contrary; if you know that what you have in your hands and heart is the precious seed of age-old selflessness, you treat it with incredible care.

Recognizing feelings as love does not give further license to throw love away, instead it fosters awe and respect for the insurmountable potential our newly developed feelings can have.

This is love. So treat it with care.

I Was "That" Person

Have you ever been at a party where "that" person was in attendance? "That" person is usually saying awkward things, making people feel uncomfortable, just doesn't quite fit in, and makes the rest of the party wish "that" person wasn't there.
But if you have been at a party with "that" person, you may have also witnessed an incredible host. The host doesn't make fun of "that" person, they never insult them, they are always and forever gracious. Even if the host is beginning to wish "that" person had never been invited, they will never show that feeling; the gracious host will be kind and considerate to the end. It's what makes them a great host.

My name means "God is Gracious."

And for most of my life, for some unknown reason, I considered God to be like that host.
Because I considered myself to be "that" person.

Grace means unmerited favor. Heavily accent the unmerited and you have my mind's definition pretty much summed up.

It was not difficult at all to imagine God above looking at me and thinking, "There she goes again... saying something she shouldn't," or, "Sigh. You'd think she would catch on quicker." But of course He would never criticize, because He is an incredibly gracious God.
Essentially, God is a nice guy, which is the only reason He puts up with me.
And I tried to remain as good as possible so I didn't bother Him with my issues, because He was already being really nice by saving my undeserving self from my sins. Of course, that didn't really work, being I also loved Him and wanted to have an honest relationship, which left me feeling pesky and petulant most of the time.

Then I was given a not-so-complicated, but very impacting, revelation: the word that is translated as grace in the New Testament is closest to the word for favor in the Old Testament.

Favor. It had been in the meaning all along, and yet I had never separated it from being unmerited. Favor.

Now that word has much different connotations for me. A favor is something good. A favor is something kind. Being favorable is being worthy of being wanted. Being favored is being liked, not just tolerated. Favorites receive the firsts, not just the scraps.

Since that simple yet profound revelation, I have been the keenly-aware recipient of immeasurable favor from God:
Anonymous gifts.
Blessings from unexpected places.
Circumstances lining up too well to be simple coincidence.
Prayers answered that I had forgotten I even prayed until after they were answered.
In short, being given preferential treatment even though I had done nothing to earn it.

Favor.

I know this is not the main definition of the word favor, but favor brings to mind the situation where a part of your body is injured and you favor that injured area. You favor it. It is always first in your mind. You change the way you do everyday tasks, such as walking, talking, picking things up, or sitting down. It is always and ever your priority. You are mindful of how to be gentle and kind with it.

Is it possible that God favors me in that way? That I am first in His mind? That He would go out of His way to make sure I am taken care of? Now that is a radically different way to view God's grace to me. And having my view on God's opinion of me radically changed also changes the way I view myself.

My name also means "God's Gift." I'm finally understanding how "gracious" and "gift" go together by seeing my name as "God is unreasonably favorable toward me." Because He is. But I'm learning to happily accept that.

There is a C. S. Lewis quote I love: "Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less."
Thinking of myself poorly is no way to live my own life, but it's also no way to live life with others. If I'm supposed to think of others as better than myself, and I think of myself as pathetic, then the best status others in my life are getting is "slightly better than pathetic." What? What a rip-off. How about I see myself as a co-heir with Christ and begin treating others as "even better co-heirs or future co-heirs!"

Perpetually demeaning myself doesn't make me more humble. In fact, it probably makes me prouder because I spend all my time focusing on myself, looking at myself, comparing myself, measuring myself. Instead, humility comes from being so peaceful in my identity that I don't need to think about it anymore.

I was attempting to wrap my mind around God's goodness by putting Him at my highest concept of good, and placing myself the appropriate distance away from that goodness. Instead, I need to stop paying so much attention to where I am and put God WAY HIGHER than I can even imagine. He doesn't fit inside my concepts of good, gracious, and loving. He completely blows them out of the water. And He directs that goodness toward me.


"Every generous act and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights; with Him there is no variation or shadow cast by turning. By His own choice, He gave us a new birth by the message of truth so that we would be the firstfruits of His creatures." James 1:17-18

"I pray that you, being rooted and firmly established in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the length and width, height and depth of God's love, and to know the Messiah's love that surpasses knowledge, so you may be filled with all the fullness of God. Now to Him who is able to do above and beyond all that we ask or think according to the power that works in us - to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen." 
Ephesians 3:17b-21

"For in Christ all the fullness of the Deity lives in bodily form, and you have been given fullness in Christ, who is the head over every power and authority." Colossians 2:9-10

Think You're Righteous?

What makes us righteous?

The definition of righteous is "acting in accord with divine or moral law :  free from guilt or sin."

I'm going to take a shot in the dark and assume that the first person who people think of when the word righteous is mentioned is NOT Lot. (Sodom and Gomorrah, wife turned into a pillar of salt, just not exactly hero of the faith material here.) And yet, in reading and digesting 2 Peter 2 this last month with some great Bible study partners, one verse stopped me in my tracks:

"...and if He rescued righteous Lot..." 2 Peter 2:7a

Righteous Lot. Righteous Lot? Okay, I clearly needed to re-read the story of Lot. Let's do a little review together.

* The first mention of Lot comes in Genesis 11, he is the nephew of Abram who, as we all know, later becomes Abraham. So he's related to one of the biggest heroes in the faith (just see Hebrews 11). Okay, so he has that going for him, but we still don't know much about him.

* The second mention of Lot is in Genesis 13. Lot had been traveling with Abram, following him wherever he went. The land couldn't support all of their livestock, and their herdsmen were fighting about it. Abram intervenes and suggests to Lot that they part ways. Note that Abram is being the bigger man - he brings up the issue, suggests a peaceable compromise, and offers Lot the first pick of where he wants to go (Genesis 13:8-9).

* What does Lot do? He picks the entire Jordan Valley for himself. The one that was "well watered everywhere like the LORD's garden and the land of Egypt." (Genesis 13:10) Not exactly the sacrificial type, apparently.

* And where does he set up tent? "Lot lived in the cities of the valley and set up his tent near Sodom. Now the men of Sodom were evil, sinning greatly against the Lord." (Genesis 13:12, emphasis mine) Not only did he live in the area, he chose to live near utter corruption and disobedience.

* Time passes. Lot's living in Sodom now, and he has the bad luck of being taken captive when four kings wage war on the area and decide to capture him right along with the goods of Sodom and Gomorrah. Abram hears about it and rescues him, everything ends well. (Genesis 14:11-17) Still not seeing a whole lot of righteous deeds on Lot's part. And he apparently goes right back to living in the midst of sin, because the next time we see him he's back in Sodom.

* Genesis 19 gives us the well-known account of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and the most information about Lot. Overview of the story:
He starts off on the right foot - two angels enter Sodom, and Lot sees them and invites them to spend the night at his house. They turn him down, but he urges them so strongly that they eventually agree. (v 1-3) He is a good host, serves them a feast. (v 3) But before they can go to bed, the men of the city surround his house and tell Lot to send out the two visitors so they can have sex with them. Lot refuses. This is good. He instead offers to send out his two virgin daughters for them to rape. Uh... this is NOT good. (v 4-8) The angels intervene, save Lot from the situation, and then tell him to get out of the city and warn his family because the LORD is going to destroy the city. Lot goes and tells his future sons-in-law, who think he's joking. (v 14) In the morning he is still there. The angels have to urge him again to leave.

And what does Lot do?

He hesitates. (v 16)

He cannot pry himself away from this depraved culture in which he has entrenched himself. Even though 2 Peter 2:7b-8 states, "Lot, distressed by the unrestrained behavior of the immoral (for as he lived among them, that righteous man tormented himself day by day with the lawless deeds he saw and heard)", he still couldn't bring himself to leave.

So what does the LORD do?

"Because of the LORD's compassion for him, the men grabbed his hand, his wife's hand, and the hands of his two daughters. Then they brought him out and left him outside the city." (Genesis 19:16)

I have always read the story of Sodom and Gomorrah as a story of judgment on evil. But now, I am reading it as a story of God's infinite compassion on one man. One man. One man who, from all accounts and appearances, didn't really have his act together.

And even after God rescued him in such a way, he had little faith (v 19). The wife he chose couldn't leave their ugly lifestyle behind her and had to pay the consequences (v 26). He lived in fear after the destruction of Sodom and wouldn't leave the mountain cave where he and his daughters had fled (v 30). Then on top of all this, he gets so drunk that he impregnates his daughter and doesn't remember. Twice. (v 32-35)

This is the man Peter called righteous? The tag-along, selfish, spineless, fearful drunkard?

Apparently so.

And beyond that, He blessed Lot by placing him the lineage to the Messiah. Lot's daughter had a son named Moab, who fathered the nation of Moab. Out of Moab came Ruth, grandmother to King David, beloved of the LORD.

It is completely mind-boggling. Now, granted, Lot isn't touted as someone to emulate. But that didn't change His status of righteousness in God's eyes. No matter how many times Lot failed, he was still God's son, and therefore under His protection and blessing.

So really, I must conclude that this story is not so much about Lot as it is about God. It was His compassion on Lot that saved him, it was His grace that redeemed him and gave him a position of honor in God's eternal plan.

But really, isn't it always about Him?

Our righteousness is like filthy rags. (Isaiah 64:6) Grace saved us so that no man can boast. (Ephesians 2:8-9) Hallelujah, He is protecting our identity in Him until the day He returns. (1 Peter 1:5) He makes me righteous.

"He made the One who did not know sin to be sin for us, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him." 2 Corinthians 5:21

"And be found in Him, not having a righteousness of my own from the law, but one that is through faith in Christ - the righteousness from God based on faith." Philippians 3:9

What Do You Expect?

I've been thinking about the radical way we celebrate Christmas, and how, as Christians, it seems that we place almost too much emphasis on the birth of Christ rather than His resurrection or ministry. Shouldn't Easter receive more attention? Why is Christmas such a huge deal?

But then I got to thinking about the age-old adage about Christ being the best gift you can receive at Christmas.
Have you ever received a gift that wasn't what you expected it to be? You open the box, look inside, and say, "Ooh... thanks... it's great." And you're not upset about it, you're not sad, it just isn't what you expected it to be. Hence, your response is polite and grateful, but not exuberant.
Then you take the gift home.
And you begin to use it in your daily life.
And you realize... this is a great gift! It's awesome! I really like it! And you think, "Man, if only I could go back and open it for the first time again and be as thankful for it then as I am now."

I think that's why Christmas is a big deal.

We didn't know what we were getting. We expected a King, and we got a baby. Not a bad thing, just... not what we were expecting Him to be. And so the response to His coming was quiet; grateful, but not exuberant; thankful but not overwhelmed.
Then He lived His life.
He changed the very nature of our communication with God.
He ripped open the gate between man and Creator.
And we realize looking back... He was a great gift! If we had known what He was going to do, how He was going to heal the sick and work miracles and reconcile the world to Himself through one ultimate sacrifice and triumph, we would have been shouting our lungs out in thankfulness. And so now we think, "Man, if only we could go back and see Him coming for the first time again and be as thankful for Him then as we are now."

The original gift is so incredibly important, because it contains everything else that comes after. Jesus as the sacrificial lamb was inside that baby. Jesus as the resurrected conqueror was inside that baby. The One who threw the stars into place was inside that baby. The entire scope of His revelation and nature was inside that baby.
That's an awesome gift.

So I am now wondering to myself, what is my reaction going to be when He comes again? Will I recognize the immense beauty in the gift being given?

The shepherds at Christ's first coming are usually the most talked-about visitors, how Jesus was first shown to humble workers instead of learned scholars. But what about the wise men? These men, highly esteemed and intelligent and noble, found the same King in a young boy's body. They weren't thrown off by it. They didn't take a look and say, "Oops. Guess we were off. We'll just take our not-age-appropriate-gifts and go away." They fell down and worshiped Him. They knew what they were looking for. They had been following His star, they had done their research, they had spent years of their lives pursuing Him before they ever saw Him. They weren't disillusioned when they met Him.

I want to be like those wise men. I want to prepare myself before He comes again so that when I see Him for the first time, I worship and give my very best. I don't know what His second coming is going to look like exactly. It might not be what I anticipate. He may not be exactly what I'm expecting. But I know He will be the best gift ever imagined, and I want to be ready to receive Him.

10 Reasons Why I Should Be the Mother of Boys

A few months back I read a blog post (someone please stop me from reading so many blog posts...) about a mother who was so happy she was the mother of boys because she was okay with their craziness and didn't worry about their injuries and enjoyed their antics and let them be wild soon-to-be-men, not like those moms who worried over scrapes and bruises. I read that article and came away deflated.

I'm not that kind of woman.

I don't get into wild wrestling matches where someone will inevitably get injured.
I don't think farts are that funny.
I'm not into hunting.
I'm not into fishing.
I'm not even into sports all that much.
I don't like mud.
I don't understand the fascination with destruction and violence.

I like my house clean.
I like girly movies.
I like having pretty hair and fun clothes.
I like quiet activities like reading.

Seriously, why do I have three boys to my name?

Well, after pondering the question for the last several months, I have come up with the following list of reasons why I am a good mom for my three boys:

1) I'm okay with being a girl.
Seriously, don't underestimate that one. I am glad my boys will see a female who (at least most of the time) is okay with the gender I've been given. I'm not going to tear myself down every day complaining about how awful it is to be a girl. In fact, I am going to work to be thankful for it, even proud of it. Because if they see that a woman can represent her gender with peace and dignity, maybe they will have more respect for her unique challenges and abilities.

2) I like girly things.
Hey, they need some variety in life, right? And when they at last find the female of their dreams, they will know what a curling iron is, and how to say, "You look very nice." Maybe I will even produce offspring who enjoy a good Jane Austin film and that will aid them in their quest to find said female of their dreams.

But...
3) I also like having fun adventures.
Talk is good, but talking while walking is even better. I like having fun. I like doing things. I like making memories through activity. This mom will do things with them and love it.

4) I'm a good cook.
The way to man's heart is through his stomach. Those teenage guy friends are totally going to say, "Let's go to your house... your mom is making food." Oh yes.

5) I'm not depressed about not having a girl. And I will say that.
I kid you not, I was asked, by someone who I'm sure meant no offense, "So were you finally blessed with a girl?"
Uhhhh... "No. But we feel blessed anyway." (For serious???)

6) I am not an overly dramatic girl.
I have my moments, but overall I consider myself mostly level-headed and not prone to freak-out dramatics and hysteria. My boys will grow up seeing that women can be rational, practical, and not dependent on manipulating situations through emotional over-reaction.
I also am not easily moved by drama. Truly. Throw your tantrum somewhere else. (Because boys can be dramatic too.)

But...
7) I'm also a sensitive girl.
Mass hysteria, not good. Emotional stone wall, also not good. I think I have a good shot at showing them that vulnerability doesn't have to mean weakness, and tears aren't just for funerals and injuries.

8) I'm not a germ-o-phobe.
Need I say more?

9) I'm a country girl at heart.
While my boys are young and fascinated with all things tractors and machinery, it's kind of nice to enjoy living in farm country. And I even know the names of a few machines, although they are rapidly passing me up in that knowledge.

Last but CERTAINLY not least:

10) God gave them to me.
If He hadn't wanted me to raise boys, He wouldn't have given them to me. I am uniquely qualified to raise my boys. I have been equipped to raise three in a row. I have the approval and indwelling power of Christ to do so. Sounds like a good enough reason to me.

But please, don't let my personal ra-ra list make you feel inadequate! What are the reasons you are the best parent for your kids?

A Man Had Two Trees

A man had two trees.

The man was not young. His weathered hands and wizened face had long placed him in the category with grandfathers and sages.

Today he sat in the rocker on the front porch, hands grating along the oak arms without thought to their pattern.
"Nothing much changes, does it?" The murmur seemed absent-minded.
"Sir?" The boy on the floor glanced up at him. His hair was skewed and brown. No other color for it, just brown. His eyes were too probing for one so young.
The old man cast a glance at him. "Life keeps repeating." Eyes outward again. "Cycle after cycle. Year after year."
The boy remained silent. Silence has a way of asking questions words never can.
The wind scurried across the porch, taking with it a few remnant leaves from the recently departed winter months. It smelled vibrant and alive, full of all the promise and desire born of dormancy. The dried leaves tumbled to a halt in the orchard just beyond the porch, joining the first blossom petals.
"Life and death right next to each other," he mused. His smile was rueful, not bitter. Gaze drifting over the rows of neatly arranged trees, he observed the transition from withered memories to blossoming promise. "Do you see that stump over there?"
He didn't need to gesture. The gap was obvious. The boy nodded once with eyes on the spot.
"The first one here on the property. As if she had always been a part of it."
The boy's eyes indicated understanding.
"I was so young." Again that smile, this time framed by genuine affection. "We were so young," he amended. "Full of plans and dreams and everything that was going to go right." His cracked palm stilled on the oak rocker. "She was beautiful in full bloom. Perfect in every way, this beacon of solidity for everything else to grow around. She was strong from the beginning, never needed to worry about sheltering her from the wind or hail. She put her roots down deep. Nothing could shake her. Every year she flourished, even in the dry year. That was a rough one." His brows furrowed.
The boy had to lean closer; the old man's voice was never raised, always steady and low.
"Do you remember her?" A tremor there.
"Of course." A stray hunk of brown fell in those dark eyes. "We had a tire swing on the lowest branch. I got in a fight with the girls over who could swing first."
A soft laugh. "I remember that."
"There's a picture of my dad in front of that tree," he offered.
Silence slid over the porch. But the boy didn't hurry him for a response. The wood in his hand received a few more whittles. The cuffs of his plaid shirt hung loose around sure wrists. Slow and steady. No need to make a mistake.
"It was the first day of school." Old eyes were on the distant horizon again. "He didn't want summer to end. So he went and hid in that tree house. Did you know there was a tree house up there?"
Slight shake of the head.
"Huh." More rocking. As if rousing from another thought: "We built it the spring he was born. We were so excited about the adventures he would have up there. Of course, it was years before he made use of it. By that time the orchard was filling up - row upon row of saplings in the shade of that tree. One summer there was this big storm, and a pine from the grove came down. It would have crushed the new saplings if that tree hadn't caught it on the way down." Quiet reflection as the sun peered out from behind billowing clouds for a brief moment. "That was what ruined the tree house."
The old man stopped rocking again. A deep breath. "Every time I look at that spot..."
The boy's eyes followed his. Shoots of grass were beginning to surround and envelope the remains of a stump. Soon the spot would be invisible unless you knew what to look for.
"It doesn't matter how much time passes - that empty place will make me think of her every time I look at it." Hints of a crushing storm gathered in the old man's eyes. "Every time I see a solid oak. Or a hand-made tree house." The last was almost a whisper as his thoughts retreated back inside.
"Or a tire swing," the boy put in, turning his eyes back to his wood work. Tears were shed more easily when meeting another gaze. The wood in his hands carried his emotions back to a stable place. Away from the still-fresh memories of the sweet woman who had taught him how to climb on to the tire swing on his own. Of how quickly it all happened. "I wish there weren't so many things to remind me all the time." His words were breathless and harsh. Maybe those tears weren't pushed back so far after all.
"You wish-" For the first time the old man turned a full gaze to the boy. Oh, those concentrated lines in his face as he restrained his emotion looked so much like his own reflection years ago.
A rebuke reached his tongue but disintegrated upon forming. Had he known any better? Not at the tender age of wood whittling and lolling for hours in a tire swing, feet and head on the same straight line, as an afternoon was spent recalling nothing but memories. Those dark eyes were still fixed, set - a challenge behind the glistening emotion.
"No," the old man said softly. His gaze purposed beyond the porch again. "Do you see another gap in the orchard, boy?" His eyes never left their distant focal point. He didn't need to look - he knew where it was.
The boy's gaze searched. At last rested. "There."
The old man nodded. "Not a very big gap, is it?"
The boy shook his head and returned to his wood with a small scowl. Not rebellion, simply confusion at being turned away from his own question.
"A man, a young man, planted a seed there." A pause. His mind's eye held the image of the tiny gap in the orchard. "There was so much hope in that little seed: the first of the orchard, dreamed of and saved for. Nights lying awake talking of the future. How that one tree would be the first of many."
The boy looked up at the old man's sudden pause.
The old man's mouth cracked open, but it remained soundless.
The boy looked again to the spot. "But?"
The old man searched, but the only words that came were the most straight-forward. "There was never a tree." A deep breath and resuming of restless hands on the weathered chair arms. "Planted and watered and awaited, but never seen to fruition." His lips pursed and his eyes began studying the chair arm.
Confusion flickered across the boy's face. A moment passed as he waited for clarity. Upon receiving none: "Why be sad about that? There are more trees now." Gaze on the full orchard. "It was just one tree."
"So was that one." A simple lift of his finger in the direction of the once-magnificent oak.
"Yes, but," spluttered the reply. Anger and confusion bubbling together in a cauldron of unshed tears. "You never even saw that tree. You didn't build a tree house in it or sit under the shade on a hot day or even eat a single piece of fruit from it."
The old man nodded. "You're right." Misty blue eyes locked into brown. "And that's what makes it the most painful."
Question bloomed again in his face.
"I never saw that tree bloom, but I imagined it. I never pruned that tree, but I had made every preparation to do so. I never enjoyed its fruit, and so," and his voice cracked, "I have no true memories of it, only unmet anticipation." At last his eyes acknowledged the gap. "I remember that great oak so many times a day it's painful to simply walk out the front door. But at least I have memories. I have a true and solid part of my life that can be recalled and revisited with gratefulness for the time shared. But that gap? There are no memories, just the longing for them. The wondering. The eternal question of what could have been, should have been... but isn't."
The wind had stilled. Warm sun rays replaced the breeze, bathing the porch in an embrace.
"Memories are painful," the old man told the boy, voice solid now. "But they're beautiful because you can hold on to them even after the pain has gone."
The boy's face was now serene as he continued to stare at the gap.
The old man studied him a moment. "Do you understand?"
A nod. Gaze still on an unseen object.
The old man returned to his rocking. He was surprised by the quiet voice that interrupted his thoughts.
"Grandpa?"
"Yes." He had never seen the boy look this earnest.
"Someday you'll have all those memories, but without the painful part."
The man couldn't see the boy anymore. All he could do was nod as he swiped at his eyes with his shirt sleeves.
The boy unfolded his already lanky form from the porch floor and took his whittling inside. The screen door clattered shut behind him.
The rocker began again, steady and even, as the sun cast a few more rays along the orchard.