Our old yard had natural clay in the soil and we'd dig in the sand box for the lumps of clay. That or bugs. Or worms. When we took the sandbox out we found all kinds of old spoons. I think Mom was a little surprised.
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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter 5/ A Praying Mom.
Part 2 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
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We had these
neighbors, they were somewhere between an aunt and uncle, and grandparents.
They would stop and chat, getting the latest news. Their kids were several
years older than us so it was fun for them to be a little nosey, and we were
friendly people.
I loved their two
huskies. Oh my goodness, those dogs were soft. I adored, Kimmie and Keechee. They would have to be
brushed for hours a week. In summer we’d see dog hair floating through the air.
When the dogs were outside I’d go to their yard and love on them. As a child my
hands would disappear in their thick coats, probably up to my elbow. Keechee
was the mom, and Kimmie the daughter. Kimmie had one blue eye and one brown
eye, which was fascinating to me. Keechee had the roundest face, mostly black,
and ice blue eyes—I thought she was stunning. I’d just hang out in the yard
here and there to be near them. Keechee was getting older so she didn’t always
come around kids. I’d try anyway—often it looked like standing on the edge of
the yard calling to the dog for a while.
I was standing there,
on the edge of the yard one day, and I had the oddest sensation. Something hit
the top of my head and it was warm. It was not moving. I slowly reached up and
when I did, I quickly realized I had been pooped on. Some stinking bird, at
just the right moment, decided to bless me. Everyone there laughed and I was
embarrassed. What are the chances? I ran home and washed my hair. I will never
forget that feeling. A year later it happened again, this time down my right
cheek, I preferred the hair; it was probably the same dumb bird.
As we got older
the dogs did too, we found out one had cancer and the other was so lonely they
were both put to sleep. We slowly stopped hanging out in the neighbor’s yard,
or with any of the neighbor kids.
For a while there,
almost all the house near us had kids around my age. Four houses down, on our
side of the alleyway, we rode bikes with those kids; my sister would hang out
with the boy across the alley.
Earlier on, there
were a bunch of kids that were intrigued by our “fish pond.” We always called
it that, but there were never any fish, no water, and it wasn’t big enough to
be a pond; just an empty hole.
The rumor we heard
was: back in the early 1900s the property was a show house of some kind, with
an immaculately kept yard and all kinds of flowering bushes. The backyard had
one small “fish pond” we unearthed one summer, and the front yard had a much larger
one. In back, it was a steel drum, maybe four feet across and circular, behind
some trees and apparently, at one time, had a rock bench seat--that had fallen
in.
The pond in front
was oblong and facing the road, lined in cement. It was behind hedges and in
front of trees. There was a little opening in between two trees, on the side by
the house, and those trees lead to two steps. Up two steps, made out of rocks,
you would enter a tiny little world—an opening where there was enough room for
two people to sit. Inside, where a rock bench was placed into a small mound,
you could sit and look over the “fish pond.”
I loved it in
there. Other kids did too. My dad would often chase away youngsters. Kids seemed
to believe it was a public park. They thought he was mean, but really he didn’t
want them to get hurt.
The neighborhood
also had a few teenaged girls who would try to get my sister and me to follow
along with their plans. They were fascinated with the fish pond and loved it in
there as well. There were irises that grew in the front and honeysuckle on the sides.
It was a bit like The Secret Garden—a little mysterious, pretty, and different
from a typical yard, especially since it amounted to a tiny forest. It was on a
business highway with lots of traffic, it was a strange little escape from the
city traffic.
The older girls
tended to have attitudes my parents disliked, they would do things that were
borderline destructive. One day they talked us into throwing large rocks into
the fish pond—they were swiftly asked to leave. Beth and I had to remove the
rocks. We didn’t see much of them after that. I think Mom prayed them away.
Two houses over
there was a little boy who was just a few months younger than me. We went to
all the same public schools through the years. When we were very small we’d
often play in my backyard. One day he just stopped coming over. I never knew
why, but it made me curious and sad. I thought it was me, that he didn’t like
me or that I was boring. I never thought I’d know and I buried it and the
little scar it left. Surprisingly, at my ten year high school reunion he
confessed:
“Do you know why
I stopped coming over?”
“No, I just
thought you were bored.”
“No, not at all,
when I was five, I brought you a flower.”
“Oh my gosh!”
“Wait, I have to
tell you this: your dad came outside and asked what I was doing. I told him I
brought you a flower and he told me to go home. And I never came back. He was
scary.”
He was trying to
be sweet and was wounded in the process. I was stunned for weeks. Yep, that
would scare a little boy away; for-ev-er. He was my favorite person when we
were four, and he brought me a flower. Twenty-three years after it happened we
could laugh about it together.
We took very
different paths in life. Maybe some prayers for protection were answered—I know
they were prayed. I may have been spared a great deal of pain but I will never
know. I do wish I would have known about the gesture and I wish we still would
have played in the backyard. …And that I
had gotten that flower—even though it was probably a dandelion.
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The power of
prayer is mysterious. The more passionate, specific, and engaged the prayer is
the more impact prayers seem to have. There seems to be a direct ratio of heart
strings to tangible answers. It would make sense that a mom’s prayers would be
fervent and effective.
There are some
events that do not make sense, as though divinely interrupted or rerouted—between
God’s will and impactful prayers, who really can say what is what, all I know
is certain unfolding events start, stop and pause without my participation or
action.
The turns life
takes are sometimes sad and challenging in the moment and many have left me wondering
what really happened, sometimes for years. I finally knew why I didn’t see my
friend anymore.
I’ve experienced
this beautiful thing through prayer—peace if there is nothing else to be gained
or understood, there is often peace that comes through prayer. And when I am
really fortunate I may also experience resolution and closure.
