Milkweed

Walking through the field in the gentle breeze, I noticed milkweed pods blown in from recent storms resting between the wires of the old rusty fence. Not just one or two, but a whole branch of pods, some opened with their floss rustling in the wind, some tightly closed.

Without hesitation, I was back on the path to my grandma’s home. The old house boasted a big stone porch with a wooden swing on either end: swings where we used to sit and listen to stories of days gone by told by my beloved grandma who had thinning silver hair and a voice I no longer remember.

All along the path that led to her house, milkweed grew, and my sisters and I would stop to open the pods and watch the silky, white hairs blow in the wind. Those were the days when the monarch butterflies were so abundant that when their wings met in the air, we could catch them on wildflowers and then watch them fly away, leaving remnants of orange dust on our fingertips.

And now, after opening the closed pods and standing in the field watching the dainty, soft floss rustle in the wind, I sit on the porch swing on the stone porch of my old red-brick farmhouse and realize that a generation has passed right before my eyes.

Yesterday I, with my thinning silver hair, watched my grandchildren running though the field collecting Easter eggs, and my family sat under the sun sharing stories.

And today, here alone on the wooden swing, I wonder if they’ll someday forget my voice.

The time has come

While visiting a beautiful property the other day, I saw a blue heron. Almost magically, it swooped down from the clouds into a nearby pond and serenely settled in the distance. Curious, I sought information and discovered:

As I enter a phase of life where I desire to follow my dreams before it's too late, this message of tradition empowers me and helps me see the importance of maneuvering through and co-creating circumstances. With God at the helm, miracles happen. I believe.

Aches & Pains & Aunt Freida

As I talked to my momma tonight, we mentioned aches and pains and Aunt Freida who’s 92 and can’t figure out why her body hurts.

I said, “Well, she IS kinda old…but we’re all getting there.”

“Your parents aren’t getting old; we ARE old,” Momma said. I mentioned that she’s only 21 years older than I, so….once she gets to Heaven, her kids aren’t far behind….She said she can’t complain because she’s had 81 good years.

How does one process aging? I must say that 60 hit hard this year. Fifty was decently acceptable, but 60, well…shall I mention AARP? Senior discounts? Graying hair? (oops…that happened at 35!)

As I sit here in front of the fireplace under low lights, I imagine the days when I used to think Grandma was old when she was 60, 70, 80….and I’m amazed at how I am now 60 and 80 doesn’t seem so old any more.

In Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle says, “I am not an isolated, chronological numerical statistic. I am sixty-one, and I am also four, and twelve, and fifteen, and twenty-three, and thirty-one and forty-five and … and… and…” How true this is! She goes on to say, “If we lose any part of ourselves, we are thereby diminished. If I cannot be thirteen and sixty-one simultaneously, part of me has been taken away.”

When we are young, we cannot imagine what being 60 feels like. When we are older, who we were at 5, 13, 21, 35, 43, 59 is ingrained in who we are today. Memories and lessons from when we first learned to ride a bike to fishing with Grandpa to that first date…they are all a part of our aging minds, bodies and souls. And though we’ve changed, hopefully matured and become wiser, we remain the same.

I am the frightened girl walking up the path alone to Grandma’s house and I’m the mature woman flying across the ocean to lands never experienced. I’m the granddaughter who remembers making taffy and fudge with Grandma and the grandma who loves to make cookies and muffins with the grandkids. I’m the daughter who wants to care well for her parents and the parent who wants to care well for her sons. I’m all those parts and pieces of who I’ve ever been all wrapped into one big bundle, at times remembering the small acts of kindness that made me who I am today but also remembering the hurtful moments that create pause.

And I’m still afraid of snakes. (just had to say that)

But, seriously, aches and pains and Aunt Freida mean that we’re still living, experiencing and moving forward. Old? Perhaps. But alive and well and thankful that each day is a new beginning.

© Donna Arthur Downs

Sisters

As I sat with wet, grey hair, my shoulders covered by a black, plastic cape, the snipping sounds of my hairdresser’s scissors were overtaken by the woman cutting hair at the next chair complaining about her sister.

“Never helps Mom.” “Never takes responsibility.” “Never wants to change plans in a family emergency.”

Face solemn, the woman sitting in the chair nodded her head in agreement. Surely in her 80s, she had endured much and could completely agree.

“I haven’t talked to my sister since September 14, 1986,” she declared, somewhat proudly. Hmmmm.

Astonished, I could keep quiet no longer. “Really? Since 1986? Why not?”

Their mother had died and that was the day the estate was settled. Sister wanted the house to be all hers. House was divided. Hence, relationships awry.

My mind wandered to my sisters: one four years older, one 14 months older. What would it take for me to not speak to them for almost 30 years? Surely more than half of a house. Surely more than their not taking responsibility.

But, then, my sisters do take responsibility. In any family issue or crisis, we gather to help however possible. Known by my youngest brother as “stalkers,” we sometimes go overboard in trying to help with those family issues. If it takes stalking, well, we stalk together, no matter what time of the day or night.

And, of course, my sisters wouldn’t stop talking to me over half a house. They would give me the whole house if I needed it. But I wouldn’t want the house…I would say, “You take it.”

And they would argue, “No, we have houses; we don’t need anything more.” Bottom line…whoever needs the house (like youngest brother…stalk, stalk) can have it, and together, let’s make sure it stands so he can live in it for a very long time.

Lost in thought between the scissors' snips, I felt sadness for these women who have sisters, but don’t REALLY have sisters. And I felt joy because of the sisters I do have.

Relationship is what matters in life, and my family does pretty doggone well in the relationship realm. Our parents taught us the joy of giving, the importance of loving, and the necessity of forgiving. The example they’ve set before us has lit the path to joy-filled life.

Have they made mistakes? You bet. But they’ve learned through those mistakes and helped us understand how crucial it is to go on living, loving and giving no matter what.

Complaining about my sisters is not something I find myself doing very often, if at all. Oh, yes, we tease about SNEAKing, about broken arms, stolen boyfriends, one-dip-a-hand fingernail polish, but complain? Don't think so.

If I have complained before, LORD, let me never do so again.

For sitting there under that cape, I realized all over again the importance of sisters…especially the importance of mine. And I vowed to appreciate them just a little bit more, to love them a little bit deeper…and to give them my house, mice and all, if they want it!

©Donna Arthur Downs

You old, Grandma?

As I lay beside my baby girl on the air mattress at the foot of the bed in her small room upstairs, deep in thought, she began picking at a strand of my hair with her thumb and index finger, pulling it up, letting it go, pulling it up, letting it go.

"Why you got gray hair, Grandma?" she innocently asked.

"Because I'm getting old," I said, teasingly.

Her little face grew quite serious. "I don't want you to get old, Grandma. Then you will die, and I will miss you," she said, sadly.

Taken aback, I said, "I'm not THAT old, Baby Girl!"

"But I don't want you to get old, Grandma," she said, putting her arms around my neck. "I don't want you to die, Grandma," she said, pushing her face under my chin, as if in her not wanting it, she was willing that it might never happen.

I lay there holding her in silence for a few minutes, tears dampening my pillow. "We all have to die someday, Baby Girl," I said. "Then we get to be with God in Heaven!"

"But I don't want you to be with God in Heaven; I will miss you!" she exclaimed.

"Well, Grandma plans to be with you a long, long time," I said. "We're gonna run in the fields, swim in the pool, walk down to the creek and throw rocks in it!"

Lying there beside her, though, I realized that life isn't always what we plan. Just last week, a beloved 21-year-old died tragically. Just today I visited my 80-year-old aunt dying from pancreatic cancer. So just now I'm realizing even more the brevity of life. And, yes, life isn't always what we plan.

I've been blessed with an uncanny ability to envision myself no longer here. Saddened at the thought of leaving those I love, I realize that earthly life is a moment in comparison to eternity...a second in a decade, a year in an era, a century in eternity. It's short. So very, very short.

And, yes, we all age from the moment we're born. No choice in aging except to die an untimely death. No choice but to watch the vision blur, the hearing dull, the arthritis set in, the mind forget. No choice but to know the heartbreak from haunting hurts, the loneliness from lost loves, the wrenching despair from devastating deaths.

But those are realities of life well lived...for unless we are vulnerable, we build walls to block pain. Unless we know and deeply understand others, we can't grasp the concept of loneliness. Unless we love with the greatest of love, we can't grieve in sorrow's depths.

Even today I am very much the 5-year-old walking the path to Grandma's house. The 12-year-old standing on the sidelines at my first junior high school dance. I'm the young bride marrying right out of college. The 23-year-old sitting at my dying grandmother's side, reassuring her she was "good enough" for God. I am the young mother playing guitar and singing "One Tin Soldier" to toddler sons. The teacher watching her students graduate year after year, wondering if those to come will be half as good as those leaving. The friend striving to understand others' needs.

We are who we are because of those segments in our passing lives, because of choices we've made along the way and people we've allowed to grip our hearts. And though age brings pain and heartache, it also brings overflowing love and joy. Age takes us a step closer to God and gives us a pressing sense of squeezing a little tighter, hugging a little longer, laughing a little more. It makes us turn to say "I love you" one last time before walking out the door.

Having an aging body doesn't mean giving up or giving in. It simply means moving a little slower, thinking a little longer, grasping new concepts with a little more difficulty. It means realizing even more the importance of scooting a little closer to this 3-year-old lying beside me, putting my arms around her and holding on like nobody's business.

The next morning I awoke with a little index finger poking my cheek. "You old, Grandma?" her whispering voice asked.

"Not yet, Baby Girl," I responded, rubbing her nose with mine. "Not quite yet."

04.08.12© Donna Arthur Downs

A special dance

Small work boots danced on the flatbed train, first one knee high in the air, then another. He suddenly stopped and lifted his arms, extending little hands to hold mine. Eyes twinkling and lips smiling, he had my full attention.

“Dance with me, Grandma!”

Taking his hands into mine, I felt his warmth reverberate through the small fingertips, though the air was chilly and our breath lingered like smoke in the sun’s beam.

One foot up and then the other. Left. Right. Swirl clockwise. Come back around. Up. Down. Around and around.

Centered on the platform, we moved about, tightly holding hands, concentrating on only one another and our next step together…as if no one else existed. His sober face said, “Dancing is a task.”

No music played. We didn’t have to keep rhythm or worry about falling out of step. The sun shone brightly as the gentle breeze caressed our cheeks, coloring them pink. He looked up at me and smiled. I held more tightly to his hands.

Around and around we twirled, creating memories on this very special day. Leaning down, I scooped him up in my arms and held him tight. He nuzzled his nose into my neck and we stood still for just a moment. I leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Happy birthday, Joah Boy!” I exclaimed. “You’re 3 years old!”

He quickly wiggled out of my arms and hurried off to the next new attraction.

Watching him scurry away, I savored the moment…knowing that all to quickly moments become days. Days become years. Years become lifetimes.

This fleeting moment for him was one of my most memorable … forever etched in my heart…dancing with my grandson on a cold but sunny afternoon.

© 2014 donnaarthurdowns

Circle of Life

What is it about a child's fearless joy that causes trembling, laughter, tears of joy and melancholy?

Perhaps it's remembering our own young children, knowing how quickly moments pass and astonishment in the little things turns to frustration and trials.

Maybe it's just the feeling we get when we wrap our aging fingers around the small, soft, sleeping faces at night, following the forms, trying to so engrave the beauty into our minds, dreaming that their presence will be with us just as much tomorrow . . . and the next day and the next . . .

And in the darkness as the moon glimmers through slatted blinds, a grandma's tears dampen soft, silky hair as she kisses little faces and recalls her own grandmother from years gone by . . . and realizes all over again the brevity of life on earth.

And deep longing settles in . . longing to be held and loved by Grandma, by Mama ... longing to be closer, spend more time and establish a quality relationship with these little ones whose fearless joy brings trembling, laughter, tears of joy and melancholy . . .

. . . melancholy that reaches back in time and surrenders memories of days well spent, and hope for this circle of life to show only love, only hope, only grace, only faith that it does not, indeed, end here.

© 2014 donnaarthurdowns

Remembering Grandma

As I headed to the mailbox this morning, the crisp air of January met me afresh. The snow covering the once-green grass barely crunched below my feet, and I found myself walking on top of it rather than sinking in.

My mind wandered back some thirty years. Arlington cemetery. Bloomington, Indiana. Grandma and me.

I took her to put flowers on my grandfather’s grave. Solemnly we exited the car and moved toward the grave on a brisk winter morning. She and I walked atop a frosted-over snow, slowly making our way to the grave. Bare, iced branches of the few trees standing amidst the many marble markers glistened in the midmorning sunlight.

We quietly ambled on. Then Grandma, attempting a smile, looked at me said, “I’ve never walked on top of snow before.”

I gripped her elbow as we approached the grave that had for the several months held the body of my grandpa, her husband of more than sixty years.

Sacredly placing the flowers gently into the urn beside the marble monument, she stepped away, reading the dates carved in the cold stone. Her name etched beside his with only a birth date and a hyphen loomed over both of us, an omen of days to come.

“I guess I’ll be there beside him someday,” she said. Tears trickled down both our cheeks as we stood in silence, staring at the stone that foretold life’s brevity.

Regaining composure, I said, “Well, we won’t think about that now, Grandma.” Empty, useless words to an 81-year-old who had heard death’s knock amongst friends and family one too many times.

She might have stood there all day had it not been winter. My hand grasping her elbow, I urged her back to the car. “Come on, Grandma, it’s cold,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

Coldness comes and goes over time. Seasons change and life as we’ve known it no longer exists. We can never go back. People enter our lives for a season and then we must walk alone, seeking to understand life’s rhythm.

After lifting the little red flag on the mailbox, I turned back toward the house. The blacktop drive was bare and clean, providing a much safer path…but I preferred to move on top of the snow, step by step, pretending that Grandma was walking beside me once again as my hand gently urged her home.

© 2014 donnaarthurdowns

Abundant life

Abundant life?

The question raised in church that Sunday morning was, “Do you have an abundant life?”

To my left was a young family who has been in my life for more than 10 years.

Adam and Ronda Myers. Their oldest son, Elijah, diagnosed with ALD, recently underwent a bone marrow transplant and is still recuperating, but alive and well. Their younger son, Cyrus, was the donor. Their faith has been tested to the extreme, but they have come through this ordeal praising God.

Today was their first time back to worship in 11 months because of the threat of infection for Elijah. Through the sermon they sat side by side, with Cyrus stretched out on their laps and Elijah at Adam’s side. Family unity. Strength through trial.

Ronda beautifully sang praises to God, worshiping more expressively than anyone in the sanctuary. And she’s probably been through a more difficult year than anyone there.

To my right was my friend of more than 20 years, Kendra, home on furlough from her missionary life in Africa.

Her right jaw was bruised because she recently had a tooth pulled. When the she and her family return to the states, they receive every medical check up imaginable. A few years ago as she was about to return to Zambia, Kendra was diagnosed with breast cancer. Unnecessary at the time, but necessary since she would not have frequent check-ups, Kendra underwent a double mastectomy. As soon as she recovered, they immediately returned to Zambia to faithfully serve God.

She, her husband John and their two children have also been forced to leave the country with only the clothes on their backs. They’ve been held hostage, faced other medical conditions and watched their families back home go through crises, but they continue to serve and praise, and the Spirit works wonders in their lives.

In my mind was my family.

Two fine sons who serve God in their careers. A beautiful daughter-in-law who loves my son and is a wonderful mother to my granddaughter.

Two younger brothers who struggle but are finding their way. Two older sisters with faith that can move mountains. A mom and dad who would give anything they have to anyone who needs, though they have very few material belongings.

Four years ago, Dad was diagnosed with mantle-cell lymphoma. Stage 4. No one diagnosed has ever lived more than five years. According to medical tests, Dad is cancer free. A walking miracle.

Faith in each of us has increased. We believe in God’s power. We believe in miracles. Even if the cancer returns, the past four years have been an incredible blessing and testimony to God’s ability to heal . . . physically, spiritually, emotionally, mentally.

I am surrounded by friends who pray with me and for me. They guide me when I lose my way. They advise me when I struggle. They love me in spite of my faults. They hold me when I cry, rejoice with me in happiness and walk beside me no matter what. I could call them any time of the day or night, and they would answer . . . and come to my rescue.

I live in a wonderful old, two-story farmhouse. The wallpaper is falling off the walls, and the roof has leaked numerous times, but it is home. The fire now burns in the fireplace, and I just finished a cup of hot tea. I am warm, well fed (too well fed), and I can look out my back window and still see the colors of autumn.

Beside my bed and beside my recliner are Bibles. I can freely read the Word of God, freely attend church, freely pray, freely praise, freely share my faith.

I teach at a Christian university where my students love to learn and learn to love. They come by just to say hello (and to get a piece of chocolate), and they are welcomed in my office. My co-workers and I love and respect one another. We are constantly given opportunities to learn, grow, develop. In our midst are great scholars, great thinkers, great believers, great lovers of God and man. And most are humble servants.

Every month I have a few extra dollars to give to those in need. I never go hungry, never go thirsty, never want for clothes to wear. I have been given the gifts of hospitality, encouragement, generosity and love. God has blessed me with a gift for writing, for taking beautiful photographs, for helping others.

Even if all of this is taken from me, I have a God who sees to my every need, who hears my cries, who answers my prayers. I have a God who forgives me, shows me more mercy than I could ever deserve, allows me to start each day afresh and never keeps track of my mistakes. I have a Savior who gave his life so I might live. And I have a Spirit that lives within me, convicts me of my error and leads me to grow, to believe, and to share my faith with others.

Do I live an abundant life? You bet.

Do you?

© 2014 donnaarthurdowns

Essence of reality

My young niece recently posted on her Facebook wall: “There’s a difference between dreams and real life; in dreams you go to sleep and you think about something and see it in your head, but then you wake up to find it wasn’t real...Real life is something you never wake up from and when only things that are possible happen."

According to Mark Twain, all of life is simply a dream, making each of us figments of our own imaginations. Therefore, no one should be surprised by anything, and nothing should happen to any of us because if each is a dream, the need for interaction is nonexistent.

Of course, if each is a dream and all dreams are intertwined, there would be endless chances of jumpy, woodsy things sneaking up on us because we would be constantly open to the eternal harassment of those types of things. Being one experienced at jumpy, woodsy things sneaking out and harassing, I have determined that either the dreams are intertwined or else this is reality and dreams abound subconsciously. And jumpy, woodsy things are everywhere, waiting to pounce.

That's why we have prayer.

Twain’s problem with life centered on refusing to believe in a God who would allow suffering and pain. His later works like "The Mysterious Stranger" and "The Damned Human Race" showed a very bitter man who had been through much suffering and was, in fact, looking for answers from a God who he believed only inflicted hurt. When his daughter died from epilepsy, he suffered immensely. One incident after another made him determine that if God exists, then he has a stark, weird sense of humor.

After reading his works, I can empathize with Twain in a way. He was hurting very much and was looking for someone to lash out at. In the end, he concluded, what use is life? The very question that made him so angry with God is the very one that can strengthen our faith. When he wanted an easy way out, he simply said that perhaps this is just all a dream . . . perhaps life is nonexistent, and, certainly, it isn't eternal. He gave up on hope. He denied faith.

God does allow hurt. I'm not sure he inflicts it. I'm not sure he revels in it. I am sure he is pleased when we become better people, closer to him as a result of it.

Why am I saying all this? To say, I guess, that it isn't all a dream. Hurt is hurt. Monsters are monsters, whether they are in our homes, at our work places, or hiding under our beds. And because they exist in various forms, they creep into our subconscious thought and sometimes take over our minds; they cause us to fear when, in fact, we should fear nothing that harms the body–only that which damages the soul.

Yes, monsters strike us even in our dreams. Sometimes they strike us mainly in our dreams to cause doubt and fear. Sometimes they warn us that we aren't quite as strong as we thought we were. Sometimes they are just there, lurking above us, below us, around us, trying to find a way in. And always they point us toward Someone powerful enough to help us overcome.

© 2014 donnaarthurdowns

Stillness in storms

Last night my son Brandon and I stood outside and watched the storm disembark. Tall, slender and easily blown about, he ran out into the field and gazed up to heaven in awe. He threw his arms out, paralleling the ground, and twirled around. “Isn’t it cool?” he yelled against the bellowing winds.

What we experienced at that moment was the awesome hand of God moving about the earth, changing the south winds to north, blue sky to gray, stillness to ravaging storms. Often these storms direct us to God when we otherwise don’t notice He’s there.

As the small, nearly transparent, lighter clouds danced eastward beneath the looming gray billowing vastness, we settled on the porch swing, watching the heavens move above us, feeling the winds engulf us and smelling the fresh summer rain. The all-encompassing gray cloud sat above us as a toadstool in the forest, in a distinct circular pattern, casting a shadow on the gesturing green grass.

A memorable time with my son.

God must have felt the same way as He read our innermost thoughts of His mighty and breathtaking power. We acknowledged His presence, His authority, His sovereignty. A memorable time with His children.

“Makes you feel pretty small, huh?” I asked Brandon.

“Definitely.”

Knowing the storm could develop into something far worse than it was, we both lingered in the moment of God’s supremacy. Watching it pass, arrogantly taunting the earth, we felt respite at the inconsequential damage left in the storm’s path.

As it dissipated, allowing clear skies to peak through broken clouds, we sat, my son and I, basking in the presence of a mighty and wonderful God.

“Look!” he exclaimed, pointing westward. “Blue!”

And we find that’s how our God works. Storms come and go. Some loom above us, surround us, teasing us, warning us. Others hit hard, damage us, leaving us wounded and wondering, “What shall I do with this, Lord?”

But however each storm affects us, blue skies always appear, often leaving us wondering if the storm really even ever existed.

God’s promise is not that storms will not come. He doesn’t promise damage-free lives. He doesn’t say He will not allow us to be hurt.

He says, simply, “Be still, and know that I am God.”