In 1965, I spent some babysitting money to buy a ticket for a “Patch of Blue”, a popular movie at the time. The story of Selina D’Arcey, a white teenager blinded at five-years old by her abusive mother, and later befriended by a kind, black man, left a lasting impression upon my life.
For the movie was well titled. The patch of blue sky Selina recalls before blindness is a remarkable metaphor of memory’s grace to humankind. Often, remembering a patch of anything beautiful and profound will lift us from dark loneliness into joy’s great light. Although art is not the real thing, if well done, the song, movie, painting, play, or book conveys these virtues that transform the human predicament with truth, grace, and mercy. For example, when faced with a challenge, I may remember Pip, the narrator of Charles Dickens’ “Great Expectations”. If this poor orphan became a gentleman, I may achieve the desires of my heart. You may. My bookshelves are packed with titles well named; Jane Austin’s “Pride and Prejudice” that illuminates my pride and prejudice with each read. On the opposite end of the literary spectrum, Harriette Arnow’s “The Dollmaker”, the epitome of wondrous truth-telling, speaks of my resourceful Appalachian roots. To tell of real-life spontaneous bright spots in my own family, I recall my California daughter’s silly childhood saying, “Sha-koo-ka-koo-dee”. She’d speak it, laugh with innermost sincerity, and repeat it. No wonder she enjoys teaching English as a second language. At times, I hear “Sha-koo-ka-koo-de” echo in my ear, and smile. More recently, when I gather our Isa Brown’s eggs, I think of our former Ameraucanas and their gorgeous blue eggs. If they hadn’t been a mean breed, I may have peeled blue eggshells instead of brown for lunch’s egg salad sandwich. Yes, I do miss finding a perfect blue egg each morning in the nest. However, peace in the hen house is more desirable than the color blue. Often, however, our gift of memory reaches beyond the sensory to recall bright spots within the interior of our heart, mind, and soul. The moment we embraced truth, faith, hope, and love, their power created durable benefits upon our mind and heart to employ when we need strength. Yes, dear Reader, a bright spot visited me a few weeks ago and offered a promise I hold onto. As usual, the sky was cloudy when I walked down to the hen house at night to close the chute. As I walked up the hill, I resolved to refrain from complaining about gloomy skies. At sunrise the following morning, I sat up in bed and glanced to a bright spot on the shower curtain in my connecting bathroom. What a blessed sight! The sun shone through the window facing south and remained on the curtain, changing shape as the sun arose. As I hold other unmerited gifts, I keep the promise within the bright spot in my heart. I now extend a portion to you.
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“Never be ashamed of a scar. In the end, scars tell the story of our lives, everything that hurt us, and everything that healed us.” The Little Liar by Mitch Albom
In the Rochester Barnes & Noble, I found the end of the line behind a beautiful Asian woman. “Merry Christmas, my name is Iris,” I said. She smiled. “Merry Christmas. My name is Jean.” “I presume you’re also a fan of Mitch Albom’s stories.” “Yes, and I work for his charity, the SAY Play training center in Detroit.” I was aware of the orphanage Mitch founded in Haiti, yet hadn’t heard of his local charities for children. “Where in Detroit?” “Van Dyke and Seven Mile Roads,” Jean said. “That’s close to Algonac Street where my husband and I lived with our girls for seven years,” I replied. The man closest to us in line said, “My brother and his family also lived on Algonac Street.” Indeed, my children played with his niece and nephews. In the midst of this spontaneous preview to Mitch’s book-signing, the author arrived at 7 P.M., stood on a chair, and addressed the line of readers that trailed from one end of the store to the other. “This story is about a young boy named Nico who always tells the truth until the Nazis trick him into lying to persuade his townspeople into boarding box cars when they arrive in their town. The Nazis know if you tell a lie repeatedly, people will believe it, and the lie becomes the truth,” Mitch said. His book-signing began. Truth be told, I don’t read horror stories. Yet, I packed Mitch’s book in my carry-on for my flight to San Francisco. I’d hoped to complete the story airborne, yet the young woman to my right fascinated me with her crochet project and conversation. Furthermore, the dark, cramped space discouraged reading. Mitch’s little book waited until I returned home from my wonderful Christmas celebration with my two daughters, grandson, son-in-law and his parents, and two grand-dogs. I loved the exercise and companionship of walking the beach of the doggie park with my daughters and grand-dogs along San Francisco Bay. Once home, unpacked, and laundry put away, I settled into my cozy reading space with Mitch’s story, told in Truth’s voice. I often paused at Truth’s profound guidance and resolutions. Page 142, particularly, as stated above. What wisdom to include scars in the “the story of our lives”. Dear Reader, the scar on my lower lip is from four-years old when I climbed over the front porch’s railing, hit my lower lip, and my teeth cut open my flesh. At age nine, I stood on a swing seat in a neighbor’s yard, pumping high as I could when the swing slipped from under my feet. The metal seat hit my upper lip with downward force, sliced it open, and chipped a front tooth. True, nothing as nightmarish as a wound from a dog bite when a Nazi “ordered the hounds on a group of prisoners”. Nonetheless, it’s my truth. And it heals me. One hundred and forty-three years after Thomas Edison and Edward Johnson, another inventor, introduced the world to electric lights on buildings, and strings of lights on Christmas trees, I decided to again illuminate our grape arbor and pergola.
Our colored Christmas tree lights, and electric candles in our windows, their warm, golden glow the Irish once used to indicate their household kept the Christian faith, weren’t enough to lift my spirit this season. I needed light in the darkness of night that surrounds our home, country, and world. I desired a small portion of something stunning and beautiful as downtown Rochester’s Big Bright Light Show. And creative and amusing as the farmer further north on Rochester Road who decorated his tractor collection with colored lights. Both dazzle my eyes, cheer my soul, and humor my spirit. So I drove to ACE Hardware and bought enough white lights to adorn my grape arbor, the entrance to our backyard. After all, I’d finally pruned the vines this past fall and removed the cords of expired Christmas lights I’d hung years ago. The arbor’s bare ribs begged to glow again. So I wove the strands of white bulbs up, over, and down the arbor, and plugged in the prongs. Voila! Downhill, the pergola called my name for the same TLC. So I wove strands of white lights up, over, and down the pergola’s entrance, all my ambition and budget allowed for adorning the twenty-four-foot tunnel. For the little redbud tree by the greenhouse had also whispered in my ear, and I bought a box of red, blue, and green lights while I shopped at ACE. The redbud had grown graceful branches as I pruned her each spring, and deserved her own light show. So I wound a cord of blue, red, and green tiny bulbs around her lower and middle branches, high as I could reach with my trusty step stool. I then set a timer from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. and connected it to an extension cord connected to the lights. I held my breath and plugged in the timer. Another Voila! The darker the night grew, the brighter the colored lights sparkled on the redbud, like bubbles in a champagne glass. I said good-night and walked up the hill to warm up with a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Dear Reader, when night falls, I find myself gazing upon my grape arbor, pergola, and the little redbud tree, thankful for my place and time on this planet. Although mankind continues to wage war with one another, lie, cheat, steal, and kill, we are nonetheless blessed with luminaries to guide our way to truth and peace. For this I know: we are never alone. The star of Bethlehem, be it an alignment of planets or another cosmological phenomenon, hovered over the birthplace of our Savior two thousand years ago. He lives within my heart today, as He has since my childhood, many Christmases ago. |
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