The planning, preparations and practise began last summer.
My daughter was desiring to have a vegetable garden and a clothesline.
Both desires sounded great, and so we dabbled our toes into the practises of many generations before us.
A rope was tied between our deck post and a tree, and we both utilized the natural drying and whites-bleaching power of the sun.
We made our veggie purchases and planted them in containers and enjoyed harvesting potatoes, veggies and herbs into the fall.
This spring, we have kicked it up a notch.
Pulleys and clotheline were purchased and (this weekend) installed.
A frame was constructed, filled with soil, and vegetables planted.
These ideas, dreamed in my daughter’s imagination, have come to fruition (hopefully literally in regards to the garden), and I stood back, last night, smiled … and thought of one of my grandmothers.
My memories of her were of quilting, baking bread, hanging laundry on the clothesline and gathering food from from the gardens of her generous neighbours … like the gleaners in the Bible.
She was confident and content. She had her opinions, and was not shy in sharing them. She (in her mid 80s) still picked up ‘the old ladies’ on her street so that they could get to church on Sunday mornings. She made the effort to see her kids and grandchildren, never sitting at home, glumly waiting for them to come to her. She loved to sing in her little church choir … even though she sounded like Lucille Ball. She loved to watch Carol Burnett in hysterical laughter. She loved to have her back scratched. She prayed.
After her husband died at a too young age, I remember having sleep-overs with her, in her fresh-air-smelling bedding. Before the light was turned out, she reached for her Bible and her Daily Bread devotional. She would read the verses appointed for that day, followed by the application in the devotional. Then, we would pray, each of us silent. Me, silently waiting for her to give me a good night hug, signifying the end of our silence. She concentrating seriously as her lips moved silently.
Last night I felt her absence, felt the absence of her faithful prayers for my life, for the lives of those I love.
Yet, the fruit of her prayers continue to ripen, in the lives of those who snuggled by her side in her dried-on-the-clothesline sheets, and those who never knew such delights.
May the harvest of those prayers of dedication and trust continue this summer, and may I be as faithful in my silent prayers … that the best dreams come to fruition.
itsawonderfilledlife 