Our Bold Dares

It's audacious and daring actually. What is it about this bold act that says it'll ever work?

We push fingers into dark soil, scooping out vaults. Then with brazen hands we press small brown bulbs into the earth and claim they'll rise again.

Burying them, covering them, we smooth the ground and walk away, with nary a trace of them left.

It feels like a swindlers trick, a money scam, and yet every few years I peruse bags, choose colors, and plop money down.

On a sunny day this month, I kneeled onto damp green grass. Red leaves swirled and dropped. Yellow maple trees shivered and shook in the breeze. Autumn afternoon sun scattered brilliantly across a shocking blue sky. And the beauty caught me. I stopped and snapped photos.

It relaxes me, this time of plunging hands into earth, smelling the loam and dirt. I scooped and filled, scooped and filled. Planting bulbs in October reminded me of my Dad's death, the one year anniversary of it came and went October 27th.

While heaven's hello is still far off, I know the results of pressing violet, fuchsia, and yellow tulip bulbs into the ground, along with tall bobbing purple alium heads. I've seen them. Can't deny them. I look forward to seeing them each year, and have been bowled over by the gorgeous beauty that springs from them.

Bold, brave, audacious flowers erupt each year from dark empty-looking dirt. I've seen it. I know it to be true.

And so I peruse bags, choose colors, and pick up my dusty trowel. It looks different at the end. The splendorous results are nothing like the simple bulbs I handle now, and I know it to be true. Life will come. This is not the end.

Several days later, my husband and I clear off the kitchen table, and plop heavy pumpkins on it. Six squat orange squash await faces. I pile knives and carving tools around them, and scatter empty bowls around for the seeds and pumpkin pieces that'll follow.

"Mom, when are they here?" Daniel asks impatiently, popping his head in the door.

"Soon, buddy! Want to climb a tree?"

He dashes out, eager for his big brother, sister-in-law, and sister to arrive.

For hours into the night, six of us smiled giddy at our pumpkins, imagining their faces, picturing who they would be. We carved and cut, deliberated and decorated. Deep dish pizza slices dripped juices and oil onto small plates. Tangy lime papaya cubes glistened as we popped them in our mouths.

Pumpkin seeds waited and dried, spread across metal trays. Sometimes the good things are now, sometimes we have to wait.

But the bold dares? The audacious hopes? They seem less daring as the evidence piles up, as each year's experiences and gifts stack before me.

Our God's gifts are constant, tender, daily as the sun. His presence is there. He walks beside us. Some gifts are now. Some gifts we await.

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Crying With an Atheist at the Bus Stop

 Dropping off my uncle at a Greyhound bus station several years ago, I noticed a young woman in her early twenties. Actually, first, I noticed her hat. A cocky little round-brimmed black hat, she carried it off fabulously. Then I noticed her eyes.

She was sad, tears welling up, as she straddled her bags outside of the lobby. I respectfully tried to give her space and privacy, looking away deferentially. Minutes passed though and her tears became larger and soon she was sobbing. Alone, on the front pavement by the street, she cried.

That undid me. Walking over to her, I respectfully asked her if she was okay. The woman mumbled something, shook her head and wept some more. Leaning down on my knees, touching her hand, I asked her if I could hug her. She laughed, nodding, and cried some more as we hugged.

"Do you want to talk?" I asked, and we did for over an hour. My uncle's bus had long since driven away. My two kids played patiently on the sloped sidewalk nearby, as traffic roared by a dozen yards away. And we talked.

There was a boy, and a mom, and the hospital, and treatment. Hard situations without easy fixes. I listened, asked questions, and listened some more. I shared too, and asked if I could pray with her right here in the parking lot.

"I'm an atheist," she said. With respect and unchanged care, we spoke some more. I asked questions, she asked questions, and she asked me to, yes, please, pray for her and her friend in that situation. Humbly, joyfully, I did.

By now, my children had run out of things to do on a cement sidewalk and parking lot. Watching with serious eyes, though, they were patient as they heard us talking. I hugged my jaunty-hatted young friend again, and my kids and I drove away.

She emailed me later that week! We exchanged a few emails, asking respectful questions back and forth. "Thank you for your openness and kindness," she wrote.

Our emails slacked off and it's been years since we've talked now. She comes to mind now though and I pray for her, wondering how she is doing. 


Join me in my next post for one of the great questions she asked, and my humble stab at it.

What conversations stick in your brain? Who are you remembering and praying for right now?