 |
| A columbine from my garden. |
This was also posted on Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for May 3, 2015.
When I was a little girl
growing up in Oklahoma, there was a lovely tradition that we took part in on
the first day of May. We would make little paper baskets, and put paper or real
flowers in them, and then hang them on neighbors’ doorknobs. Our art teacher,
Mr. Montee, taught us a couple of simple
designs for the construction paper baskets that would nonetheless be able to
hold up under the weight of the flowers. The flowers themselves were simple:
wildflowers, lilac blooms, dutch iris, spiderwort, zinnia, or phlox. There were
blue and purple bearded iris that originated in my grandmother’s garden from
the oil fields on the prairie, a riot of vibrant color on stocky stems,
resilient. There were columbine on their delicate, slender little necks that
bobbed in the breeze as we gathered them. They were all humble plants, plucked
from around mailboxes or from gardens grateful for spring rains—the same spring
rains for which WE were grateful for not bringing tornadoes.
We would make our little
baskets, decorated with smiley faces, hearts, smiling suns (a specialty of
mine), with messages like “Happy Spring!” or “Someone loves you!” Giggling as
quietly as we could, we would sneak up to a doorknob and pray the dog inside
didn’t give us away. Behind those doors were often places we would never see
and struggles we might never understand. We would then knock on the door and
run, hiding somewhere to see what happened. Our little tradition, unlike in
other places, had no romantic component—it was usually done to neighbors we
liked, to give them a little surprise.
I remember once, we left a
basket shaped like an ice-cream cone on
the doorknob of an elderly couple whom we hardly ever saw due to health
problems, except to scatter us from our games of baseball, frowning at the
noise of our play in the cul-de-sac on our street, as they slowly backed their
Buick out to doctors’ appointments. Although it took many minutes, the look on Mrs.
Lamb’s face when she saw the irises and johnny-jump-ups (that’s a violet, to those
who like more proper names) was one that drew tears to our eyes. For once, the
kids of the neighborhood surprised her, I think.
But for us, the whole point
of this tradition was to do something loving for someone who might not
otherwise expect it, to show kindness and appreciation for people who might
otherwise get overlooked. One year, we even were bold enough to leave a small
basket on the door of the grumpiest neighbors on the block, in the hope that
perhaps there would not be so much shrill scolding of our basketball thumping
and kite-flying and bicycle rodeos. This did not work—it would take many more
years to soften her heart toward us. Nonetheless, this tradition reminded us to
look at others through loving, appreciative eyes, treasuring their presence in
our lives, and allowing us to confess in a jumble of wilting blossoms what we
could never say out loud.
I was reminded of that
tradition as I looked at today’s lectionary readings. “Beloved, let us love one
another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows
God.” The first letter of John speaks a lot of love. Last week, we were
reminded that love should not just be pretty words or speeches, but be embedded
within our actions so that it is the very truth of our being. This week’s
lesson reminds us of the same. “No one has ever seen God; if we love one
another, God lives in us, and God’s love is perfected in us.”
We
are often reminded to love our neighbors. Here in America, our neighborhoods
are all too often filled with people who are remarkably similar to each other
and yet, at the same time strangers. For
a moment, there was a flash of a young girl in the wizened features of that
elderly neighbor of ours on that May Day so long ago. “Somebody loves you,”
written on construction paper in a childish scrawl, a rosy-cheeked sun beaming
benevolently in crayon. We live in a society that is starved for love, real love, where we let
go of our brambly fears and allow compassion to take root, especially for those
who we think are not just like us, but who are rooted next to us in Christ. We
can start in loving each other just in this moment, and let them intertwine
into each other. That’s enough to start.
We can so easily be turned from seeing the face of Christ in
those around us. Anyone can love those who are exactly like us. The call is to
see the divine spark even in those different from us, who are easily
overlooked. That’s love in action in this moment right here. Love that holds up each one of
us as being beloved of God. And then realize that we are not so different. At all.
No comments:
Post a Comment