Of Rainbows and Butterflies 

Like most people, I don’t understand God. Religion can be a straight jacket the older I get, and spirituality seems too easy and forgiving for any disciplined search for answers. I came to the conclusion many years ago that humans had just climbed out of the goo, as is evident from reading the headlines of any newspaper, and Homo sapiens have a long way to go before they evolve enough to have any serious grown-up relationship with a creator. In the meantime we fuss with the meaning of life and maybe accept the fact that anyone who says they have all the answers – doesn’t. But I still feel the presence of God in many ways and continually seek a relationship with that creative, mysterious, loving power that seems to be woven into every nook and cranny of this amazing creation that is all around us.

When I pay attention to the whispers in my mind, and to the random occurrences that happen around me – every minute of every day – sometimes the two intersect in a moment of serendipity where the meaning of a random happening is suddenly transformed into a moment of wonder and awe. This story is about several of those moments that slowly came together over many years. Ordinary rainbows and some migrating Monarch butterflies came into my life at times of pain and despair, were seen in their moment of serendipity by a mind that was willing to see, open to understand, and have provided comfort for many years now – that everything will be just fine.

Mom

The cancer diagnosis came way too early in mom’s life. Still in her 40s, mom had a mastectomy and chemo. After almost 5 years the cancer had come back again. Another mastectomy, radiation, and more chemo. They didn’t have all the anti-nausea drugs that we have today, so mom would go through terrible days of sickness after each chemo treatment. During her 14 year battle with cancer she found some strength and solace in her Bible Study Fellowship classes and we had more than a few talks about God, faith, life, and death. It was during one of those talks when I visited her in Minneapolis, shortly before she died, that mom told me that I could always find her in a rainbow.

The call came a week later. I had just arrived at my office when my sister called and told me mom was not doing well. A short time later she called me back and told me mom was gone. I drove home and met my wife at the door, tears streaming down both of our faces, went inside and packed a bag for a trip back to Minneapolis. The next few days were a blur of activity as we helped dad adjust to a strange new reality and plan mom’s memorial service. A few days later I returned home.

I got my bag out of the car and walked up the steps to our front door and went inside. My wife gave me a knowing hug and we went into the kitchen to talk about my trip. At some point in the conversation I was standing by the counter and telling her about my last visit with mom and img_4470how she told me I could always find her in a rainbow. A smile spread across my wife’s face and I asked her what was wrong. She pointed at me and said “look at your sweater.” I looked down and saw a small rainbow dancing close to my heart. It was being cast by one of those little crystal balls that you hang in a window, but still! We both laughed and said “mom’s here, and everything is just fine.” I had my wife grab the camera and take a picture – and I’m sure glad I did. It wimg_4474asn’t the last time mom showed up in a rainbow.

In our bedroom is a print of Jesus hugging a person in the clouds – a simple image that conveys the comforting message that God has one more surprise when the time comes. One afternoon I walked into our bedroom and my eyes were drawn to the picture where a colorful rainbow was dancing across the glass. I had been thinking about mom and the serendipity of that moment put a smile on my face. I felt mom close by and knew everything would be just fine.

It was a Friday afternoon, the car was packed with our camping equipment, cooler, and sleeping bags, the kids piled into the backseat, and we were off to Litchfield for the weekend. We drove through the town and found a city park with campsites by a small lake and a playground close by – it was perfect for our weekend getaway. We picked our site and unloaded the car. The sun was getting low so I got the tent up as fast as I could while Veloice started getting our cooler and cook-stove ready to make dinner. That’s when I felt the first drop of rain. The sky to the west had darkened and we scrambled to get things inside the tent and car befoimg_4469re it poured. Thankfully, it was a quick afternoon shower and the sun came back out as it slipped closer to the horizon. The kids and I started getting ready to make dinner on the picnic table when Veloice said “look!” I turned around and saw a huge rainbow just over the trees behind our campsite. Without a second thought I yelled “hey mom!” just as Veloice took a snapshot of me pointing to the rainbow. It didn’t come out in the photo very well, but it was there and it was a great way to start the rest of the weekend. On Sunday afternoon we took down the tent, packed the car, and headed back home. After putting things away I walked into the kitchen where Veloice was sorting through the mail and the Sunday paper. “You aren’t going to believe this” she said handing me the colorful comic section of the paper. Right on the top was “Ziggy” standing by his tent, looking at a rainbow over the trees, and saying “hey mom, I’m home!” I stared at the comic for a minute thinking about the rainbow over our tent on Friday and saying “hey mom!” img_4468-3too. It took a minute to realize that Ziggy was saying “hi” to Mother Nature in the comic, but the serendipity of that moment was beautiful. If it hadn’t rained on us, or if the evening clouds had blocked the setting sun, there would have been no rainbow, or if it had rained an hour earlier we wouldn’t have been there to see it. A million reasons why it might not have happened, and one very good reason why it did. Of course, the Ziggy comic strip could have been about anything else that Sunday, but it was a rainbow over a tent and mom. Rainbows happen when conditions are right – there’s nothing special about sunlight refracting through water droplets into a spectrum of color. And there’s nothing astounding about a comic of Ziggy recognizing Mother Nature. But when the two random acts happen together, and your mind is open to being aware of the serendipity of that moment, a new memory is created with a meaning that is larger, and more heartfelt, than either of the events by themselves. The rain, sunlight, and comic all came together in a moment of wonder. The amazing found in the mundane. Thanks, mom.

Dad

As a young boy I was very fortunate that our family had a summer place in Silver Lake, WI. My great-grandfather had purchased it in 1898 and it was a place that all of our extended family enjoyed over the years. Dad was a movie buff and usually had a camera in his hands. He would splice the film and add titles providing a wonderful movie record of our exploits at the lake. There is one scene that dad took of me when I was probably 10 years old, sitting on the end of the pier as the sun went down. The lake was calm and the sunset was beautiful. Dad used that shot as the final scene in that summer’s home movie. Dad always liked sunsets, and I saw some of the best during my summers at Silver Lake.

After mom passed away, dad and I grew very close and we spent lots of time on my boat on Lake Minnetonka. I remember taking him tubing on his 70th birthday and seeing the terrific sunset that filled the sky as we put the boat on the trailer for the short trip home. If mom had rainbows, dad had sunsets.

Dad’s final years were a slow decline as Alzheimer’s took its toll. Just before Christmas one year I told dad we should take some photographs and I’d help him write some cards to his friends. Veloice took a bunch of shots of dad and me standing in front of our fireplace. Once the roll was used up she handed me the camera and I started to roll up the film, but noticed there was one shot left. I said “hey, dad! I got one more picture to take.” and he threw his arms up and had this big smile on his face. I snapped the shot. When the photos were developed I picked the best ones to send to his friends in their Christmas card, but that last shot was priceless and I framed it to keep.

I got the call that dad had fallen and I rushed over to Pioneer Estates where dad had been living for the last few years as his Alzheimer’s progressed. Seeing he was in pain and had bumped his head, I drove him to the emergency room where he was evaluated. He had a bleed in his brain and the prognosis was not good. We moved dad to hospice and made sure he was comfortable. The days slipped away, and so did dad. I was there early that morning, reading the paper while the Frank Sinatra tape played in the background. His pulse was thready and I knew the end was near. The dawn was breaking outside the hospital window and I looked at dad. His eyes opened – they were as clear as ever – and I wrapped my arms around him and told him it was ok to go. Mom was waiting for him. I told him we would be fine. Then he took his last breath. I looked up at the ceiling and said “You did it! You did it your way.” and knew that he was no longer in pain. I turned and looked out the window – the sun had just come up on that crystal clear May morning and there were two sun dogs. Rainbows. Mom was here to take dad home. I smiled and looked down and saw the framed photo I had taken of dad with his arms up and that huge smile on his face. After going through years of Alzheimer’s there hadn’t been lots of smiles. This photo told me he was ok now.

Dad was cremated and had requested we take his ashes back to Silver Lake. I called Skip McCallum (a friend who had purchased Silver Lake from our family many years before) and he said that would be fine. A couple of weeks later I made the trip back to the lake. After catching up with Skip he told me to head down to the pier with dad’s ashes. Sitting on the end of the pier, and remembering all of the wonderful times we had spent together at Silver Lake, I simg_4472prinkled dad’s ashes on the surface of the water. He must have known what I was doing because the sunset kept getting better and better until the sky and the reflection in the water exploded into the most spectacular sunset I had ever seen. I felt the pier shake and turned around to see Skip coming down to join me with a tray of Gin & Tonics. I knew everything was going to be just fine. Dad had choreographed his final scene at Silver Lake.img_4471

Grandpa

The call came early in the morning – before sunrise – and awakened me from a sound sleep. My wife, Veloice, had gone back to Belmond, Iowa to be with her dad while he had surgery to put another stent in his heart. I knew any call this early could not be a call I wanted to answer, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I had shaken Bill’s hand just last weekend after the annual 4th of July festivities in Belmond – an annual ritual for our family. We knew he was going back into the hospital for the procedure, and I wished him a speedy recovery as I turned and walked out the door to join the rest of our family in the van for the trip back to the Twin Cities. Never once did the thought cross my mind that those would be our last words to each other. Things had deteriorated quickly during the night, but nobody had expected him to pass away due to complications from the procedure.

I answered the phone and heard my wife say “dad died” through her tearful sobs. Those two words hit me in the chest like a sledge-hammer. Everything we said to each other in the following moments seemed empty and meaningless, just a feeble attempt at comforting when you knew the other person’s world had just been turned upside down. Knowing Veloice would have her hands full, I told her I would call the kids and make arrangements for them to get back to Belmond. I woke Kayla up and told her that Grandpa had passed away during the night. She wept in my arms as we sat together on her bed and hugged each other tightly. Then I called our other two daughters, Megan and Emily, and broke the sad news to them as gently as possible. By mid-day Kayla and I were in the car heading south on I-35 back to Iowa. Megan and Mike would soon be heading down from the Twin Cities and Emily was catching a plane home from college. It was a silent ride as Kayla and I felt the sadness overwhelm our hearts with each passing mile.

When we arrived at Veloice’s childhood home, and I walked up the same steps that I climbed so many years ago when I first came to meet Veloice’s family, we joined the rest of the family who were also dealing with their own shock and sadness. There were hugs and empty stares; there were tears and words of assurance. But most of all there was just emptiness as each of us began to comprehend the hole in our own lives now that “Grandpa” was gone.

The day quickly filled with dreaded but necessary activities: Grandma was already meeting with her former neighbor and funeral director to make arrangements for Grandpa’s service. Veloice and her brother, Todd, were making calls to friends and relatives while Todd’s wife, Ann, and I tried to keep the kids busy.

By late afternoon I wandered out to the screened in porch out back. I sat down in one of the cushioned patio chairs and felt the emotions well up inside of me. Then I cried. It was through teary eyes that I first saw the Monarch butterfly. I watched it flit around the bushes, just on the other side of the screen. Maybe I was thinking about God’s miraculous universe, or maybe just about the simple beauty of a lone butterfly in the middle of an emotional hurricane – but it captured my attention and a sense of peace came over me. From bush to bush, it fluttered, stopping occasionally to sit on a leaf with its wings slowly folding up and down. Never staying in one place for very long, it was off again, fluttering around the bushes in a delightful dance. Then it was gone. I smiled and was about to get up when it came back and started its dance all over again. This time I felt something else stir deep inside of me and my heart started to sing!

I heard the familiar “slam” of the screen door and looked up and saw Todd – his slouch and long face so uncharacteristic. “Your dad’s here” I said pointing at the butterfly that continued to linger outside the porch. Todd looked at me and I realized how silly that must have sounded to him. Bill, the consummate outdoorsman, would have picked an elk or an eagle, maybe a deer or a pheasant – surely not a butterfly. What was I thinking? But I looked at Todd and said “I really think he’s here right now.”

In an instant, my mind flashed back many years, to a conversation with my mom shortly before she passed away: she told me I could always find her in a rainbow. Since that day I have always marveled at beautiful rainbows, smiled, and said “hi mom!” I also remembered when my dad passed away in my arms and how I looked up at the ceiling after he took his last breath. I knew in my heart that his spirit was still in that room. When I turned around and looked out the window at the early morning sunrise, I saw two colorful “Sun Dogs” and knew mom had come for dad. Those rainbows were a reminder from mom telling me that everything would be ok. Now, as I watched the Monarch, I had that same feeling again, and started to laugh as I watched the butterfly continue its carefree dance outside the patio screen. I was sure Bill’s spirit was here, telling us it was ok. But why a butterfly?

Later that afternoon I had to drive back to the Twin Cities, but would return the next day for Grandpa’s service. I headed out-of-town taking the familiar country roads back to the Interstate. In the distance I could see “the tree” – a tall evergreen that stands alone in a small family cemetery, by the country intersection where you make the turn to drive into Belmond on the two lane blacktop. Over the years it had become a standing joke with our family. Every time we would drive to Belmond Veloice would always say “Have I ever told you about that tree?” and we would all laugh. Her dad had always used that tree as a “landmark” in knowing where to turn on his way back to town. For over 30 years, we had too.

As I pulled up to the stop sign my tears fell again. I looked over at the tree and said “You should be bowed over right now!” That’s when a bunch of Monarch butterflies swirled around my car. img_4502No, there were hundreds of them! They were everywhere! I’d never seen anything like it and my tears turned to laughter once again as I thought about the butterfly outside the porch. Bill was here letting us know, maybe in our own ways, that everything was fine. Still laughing and crying at the same time, I started to turn left and was careful not to hurt any of the messengers in that cloud of orange and black fluttering wings that swirled around my car. As I drove away, watching the intersection and lone evergreen tree fade into the distance in my rearview mirror, I kept thinking: why a butterfly?

Once I got home I went right to the basement and found what I was looking for – the wooden Monarch butterfly that Grandpa had made for us years ago to hang outside by our front door. As I held it, and gently brushed off the accumulated dust, I finally understood the significance of the butterfly. It was his hands that had made so many things over the years. It was his tools and the small, cramped workshop where so many family treasures that fill our homes today were created. It was his carving and painting. It was his love of nature and his creativity in making gifts for all of his kids and grandchildren. It was his humor. And it was his love for each of us. I was hanging it up in a special place on our 3-season porch when Veloice called to see if I had made it home alright. My voice was shaking as I told her about the butterfly outside the screen, and the swarm that surround my car by “the tree” when I left Belmond. It had taken a while to understand, but once the Monarch was hung I smiled as I thought about the serendipity that is such a wonderful mystery in our daily lives. It’s all around us, but we have to be open to it. Sometimes it’s easily found in quiet moments, and in other times it has to push through the veil that separates our earthly lives from the place that we have known only in our hearts – a place where our spirits dance with butterflies, where butterflies can find us even when we forget them, and where they can still remind us that everything is just fine. Thanks, Grandpa. I remember.

Grandma

Enough time had passed since Grandpa died and Grandma was ready to get on with her life, activities, and her friends in Belmond. Veloice and Todd had helped her move into the retirement center and tackled the endless list of tasks to empty the house and get it ready for sale. Grandma had just settled into the next chapter of her life when she came up to visit our family in Minnesota.

She had just seen her doctor in Belmond but he shrugged off her concern. It was just a cough – probably a cold or something. Veloice, an oncology nurse, insisted she come up to Minneapolis to get it checked out. While not unexpected, our prayers had failed to change the prognosis and the doctor’s words stunned us once again. It was lung cancer and the following months were filled with radiation and chemo treatments while we took care of Grandma in our home. Unlike the suddenness of Grandpa’s passing, we watched as Grandma’s health declined with each new day. There were good days and bad, there was laughter and hidden tears. There was the hum of the oxygen machine and the hours spent sharing stories from the past. Each day became ever more important as time kept slipping away.

When the doctor told us that there was nothing else they could do, the family and kids all came home to be by Grandma’s side. On that last morning I knew Veloice and Todd needed to be with their mom and offered to take the younger kids with me for the morning. We went to Round Lake Park in Eden Prairie so they could play and get some fresh air. As we got out of the car I lined them up and said “Now listen to me – if I whistle I want you all to come running. I don’t want to hear about only ‘2 more times down the slide’, or ‘can we stay just another 10 minutes?’” They agreed and ran off to the playground. I walked slowly over to the play area and sat down on a bench to watch the kids. I started looking for a Monarch butterfly, but there were none around.

A little while later I saw one of my neighbors pushing a stroller and said “Hi Julie!” She saw me and came over to say hi. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Watching for a Monarch” I replied and then told her about Veloice’s mom. As we sat together on the bench, I told her about the Monarchs that I had seen after Veloice’s dad died, and the rainbows that I had seen on so many occasions since my mom had passed away. I just knew that Bill would come to take Jean home – just like mom had come to take dad.

Our conversation turned to the kids while they giggled and laughed on the playground and we all soaked up the warmth of the sunny morning. A moment later I looked at Julie and said “my phone is about to ring.” She looked at me quizzically. I pointed to a lone Monarch flitting around in front of us. She looked back at me, her eyes saying everything, and then my phone rang. It was Ann, “Grandma just passed away.” “I know. Grandpa was just here to take her home. I’ll be right there.” I whistled for the kids and they came running.

The ride to the hospital was quiet – all of us deep in our own thoughts – each of us having been here before – young and old alike. We walked into the hospital room and joined the rest of our family around Grandma who had slipped away peacefully. I know in my heart that Grandpa came to tell her it was ok to let go. So did I, as I sat on the bench and watched the Monarch dance and remind me once again that life is full of so many wonderful miracles and mysteries that most of us miss, or disavow, because it’s “safer” than letting in the incredible. We make up excuses to explain things we don’t understand, because believing is harder than denying. But in God’s amazing creation, anything is possible – and everything is possible. In the case of Rainbows and Butterflies, well those were for me. They both have roots in the relationships of people who were important to me, and both came back to me in ways that brought comfort in the middle of pain. And yet both are simple things of beauty that fill our world every day. As I get up in years I spend more time looking back and hoping I’ve made the right choices – it’s pretty obvious to me that I’ve come farther than I have yet to go. I have my own experiences and  have made my own choices and am willing to live with their results – maybe that’s what leads to having some wisdom as you watch others around you. But as I grow old, I want to think more with my heart and less with my brain. I don’t need to figure it all out or have all the answers. It seems to me that the important answers in life have always been there, and in plain view all the time.

Do you make time to sit outside once in a while and watch for butterflies? Do you see their colors and get amazed by their flight? Have you read about the migration of the Monarch – from Mexico to Canada? Or are you more worried about your stock portfolio? As I’ve told you in this story, I already know that Monarchs do more than fly from Mexico to Canada – they carry the wishes and “Good News” of others on their wings. They bring hope and assurance in their dance among the bushes. They really are as simple as the magnificent colors of a rainbow, embossed across a dark, angry sky – the sunlight after the passing storm letting you know that everything is ok and creating a wonder before your very eyes. Do you rush outside after the storm to look for the rainbow? Or do you worry about the branches that are hanging out of your tree? I think there is room for both, but we tend to forget to look for the rainbows in our lives and only find time to worry about things that we already know will pass.

Rainbows and Butterflies – messengers of the Creator – sent when I needed them most, and reaffirming that my life, and the lives of those around me, have always been in good hands, and that everything will be just fine.

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I’m dying, and I know it

No, I don’t have cancer or some other fatal illness. The doctor has not given me any bad news. In fact, I’m probably in the best shape I’ve been in over 20 years. I’ve dropped 65 pounds by eating less and moving more, quit drinking, and due to an earlier-than-planned semi-forced retirement I have found more time on my hands to work on my mental and spiritual health as well as my physical health. But I’m still dying, and I know it.

We all die. It’s just another part of life. Some do it well, and others go scratching and screaming. Most of us hardly give it a thought. Sure, it will happen someday. Not now. Not today, or this week. Probably not even this year. Heck, I have so many things I still have to do. My calendar is full – as if we really have any say in the matter. Each of us has a date that we will die etched in some Big Book up in heaven (God has every detail of our lives set according to His plan), or maybe we just croak because shit happens in this wonderful, chaotic, mysterious universe that we little carbon units inhabit for a brief moment as we hurtle through space and time. But we all die. Our “life” comes to an end – maybe after a long drawn out illness, in a tragic accident, an unexpected heart attack, or in our sleep at the end of a life well lived surrounded by those who love you – one can only hope.

It’s not the dying that bothers me, it’s the “knowing it” that challenges me. Since I don’t know what date got etched into that Big Book, and I don’t know how many of those loved ones will care enough to be standing around my bed as I slip away in my sleep shortly after blowing out the candles on my 100th birthday cake (yes, I’ve put in for that exit option), I need to make use of the time I have left. Better use of the time I have left. I need to keep my impending demise close to my calendar, because it is the scarcity of remaining days that gives value to each one I have left. At 66 years old most of my life is behind me, but with age comes a little wisdom – where the years and the miles intersect with experience to grant a clearer view than we had when our eyes were sharper but our knees were bloodied from our youthful stumbles and falls.

I have tried hard not to waste this time that has been made available and believe that this unplanned detour in my life has led, and will lead, to new opportunities – if I’m alert enough to be “present” when they appear. I have to pay attention. I have to make each day count.

Back to the campfire

Fidgeting, I pull my stick back from the fire and stare at the tip – the flame wisps away and the glow quickly fades. The night chill gives me shivers and I pull the blanket a little tighter around my shoulders as I try in vain to ward off the cold in my aching bones. Smoke silently curls up through the branches overhead and vanishes into the dark night sky. Your laugh brings my wandering mind back. Your faces are obscured by the thin veil of smoke that separates us but your laugh reassures me in the loneliness and the cold.

Why do I sit here alone? You are so animated as you talk and engage our friend in conversation by the fire. Lost in my own thoughts I wasn’t listening – you are always talking with someone – showing them the possibilities and hope found in another way. Why don’t we listen to you? Why don’t we follow you? Not just along the wandering dirt paths you journey upon, but your teachings. They aren’t just words, but doing what you ask is so much harder than merely hearing your words. My feet seem stuck in the clay. You are on a fool’s journey trying to share your message of hope and kindness. It’s manna for our broken spirits but your words are so quickly forgotten in the midst of living in this god forsaken place. But there you are, laughing and sharing stories with your friend, enjoying each other’s company, while I sit here and shiver in the cold. What holds me to this log? Why don’t I get up and walk around the fire to join in the conversation with you? What am I afraid of? Is there nothing I could add? Or learn? Aren’t I good enough? You are the teacher, and in the years since we met I’ve listened to everything you’ve said, but it’s all in my head and not in my heart. Why do I “think” to the point where I can’t “act”?

A flame reignites in one small part of the dying campfire and the light briefly shoos away the darkness. I poke the end of my stick into the flame and watch as the tip begins to glow brightly once again and then bursts into a dancing flame. I remember. Slowly, I pull the stick back from the fire and watch as the flame quickly goes out and the glowing tip fades away. Just like this twig that I poke into the fire, my heart warms and glows brightest when I am near you but quickly fades and cools when I turn away. Or sit here on this log. Distant. Alone. Away from you. Watching, but not engaging. Listening, but not hearing. You have not moved away from me – I picked this place. It was my choice, but I can choose another way – right?

Our friend uses his own stick to stir up the fire’s remaining embers and puts a few more pieces of dry wood on top of the glowing ash. You stretch and yawn – it has been a long day and the hour is img_4396late. Your arm wraps around our friend in a reassuring way. The fire snaps and crackles as it smolders. The fire finds new life as flames begin to dance and grow higher. I feel the warmth on my face and it slowly sinks into my bones. Your faces, visible once again through the wispy smoke curling up from the glowing fire, are smiling. With so much on your mind, how can you be laughing tonight? People want you dead – our lives are all in peril – but you show no fear. No regrets. You still have strength to share stories and jokes, to help our friend with his worries, and to listen to his concerns. You don’t judge, you put yourself in his shoes. You’re willing to carry his pain so he knows he’s not alone. Along the paths we travel together, as we walk through desolate villages, you stop and talk with everyone you meet. You smile and reassure. You listen. You touch and hug. You care – you genuinely care. And yet you have nothing – no bags, and no baggage. Poor by any person’s measure, but you give thanks for what you have as if you were the wealthiest man alive. A man with nothing who has everything.

Pulling my stick out of the fire once again I watch the tip – the flame disappears and the glow fades away. Life drains out. Hope is gone. Warmth retreats and the reassuring crackling of the fire is replaced by the unsettling sounds of the night. I’m cold. I’m alone. I’m scared. Why do I choose this?

The stick is dead. The tip is cold and black. I tap it on the ground and watch the charred tip break off and crumble into the sandy dirt at my feet. I stare at the stick for a few minutes and then slowly take it in both of my hands and snap it in half across my thigh. I toss the two pieces into the fire. Pulling the blanket a little tighter around my shoulders once again, I get up slowly and walk around what’s left of the fire, toward my friends. A smile spreads across my face with each step I take. I can pick a new direction. I don’t have to be alone.

The Simple Green Candle

The box showed up on our doorstep a few days before Christmas. It was addressed to Mom and Dad so it wasn’t one of our Amazon boxes for the kids or grandkids, but I wasn’t sure which of our 3 daughters had sent it. I added the brown cardboard unwrapped shipping box with a UPS label to the pile of colorfully wrapped packages under the tree (but not before giving it a shake, analyzing the weight, and using those well honed Christmas skills to assess an unknown gift).

Our traditional Christmas Eve family gathering got rescheduled due to flu bugs running rampant in the Adams family household, but we all gathered a couple of days later for our traditional Christmas hors d’vours and gift exchange.

Ruby and Sawyer fell right into the excitement of the evening. The boxes under the tree, which had been tempting but taboo to explore for weeks, were now pulled out from under the branches and became fair game for excited toddlers. Names were read, packages delivered by Sawyer to their intended recipient, bows removed (and stuck on Ruby, to her gleeful delight, or one of the dogs who seemed less amused). Ripped off wrapping paper was balled up and tossed to Megan to stick in the large green garbage bag. The kids had specific requests in their letters to Santa helping all his elves deliver a sleighfull of surprises that brought huge smiles, sparkling eyes full of wonderment, and shrieks of joy! The adults, too, smiled at the thoughtfulness of wishes remembered.

Even though it was addressed to Mom and Dad it must have been my turn because the brown cardboard unwrapped shipping box with a UPS label, of slight rattle and relative weight, landed on my lap to open. I took out my pen knife to slit the packing tape and opened the box. The smell of the North Woods filled my nose. Inside was a card from Emily and Karlin and a simple dark green Douglas Fur scented candle which easily correlated with the weight and rattle in the unopened box. From that first moment this gift gave me pause – it was so simple. It reminded me of the Little Drummer Boy who only had the gift of his song – rump pum pum, pum. So sweet. I knew immediately I’d use it during dinners with mom (TV off), my daily morning devotions and yoga, and when I sit down with my trusty legal pad to write. Lighting this Simple Green Candle would bring close those fun memories of our summer visits to Emily’s family in the Teton Valley and our drives up through the forest to Targhee.

I placed it gently back into the box, for the trip home, with a knowing smile of the hours ahead that I’d be sharing with that Simple Green Candle as it spreads its soft dancing light across my blank page and sets my mind to wandering.

Left and Write. The jottings of a progressive curmudgeon.