Watering

I have a story in my heart that I need to tell tonight before I sleep. (Which can't come soon enough, really - I'm worn out.)

Today, he talked about watering. The context, of course, was about watering one's spirituality, one's walk with Christ.

And I think one of the quotes was something along the lines of, "Watering is one of the most boring activities ever. If you're lucky, you might see a bug."

There are moments in life where a memory is so powerful, that it takes you over. That you cannot see in front of you, your own ghosts so crowded in your vision.

There are many dark times in my life. One of the ones that take the forefront of my memory is the time after I buried my first child. Now, it wasn't a proper burial, because there was nothing left to bury. Nothing they would let me take, let me hold, let me see.

I was at about 28 weeks when he died. I won't go into too much detail, that's a story for another day I suppose. Another forceful memory. Suffice it to say that I was Lost. And yes, that's capital L on purpose. I could not sleep. I would not eat. I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I stopped answering the phone. I watched a lot of TV. I didn't go to work... and I didn't care.

I walked the halls. The doorway. The walking dead.

As you know, when you are in a dark time, God doesn't move things on your schedule. He moves it on His. And one thing happened after another.

April - we lose our child
May - our lease expires
June - unable to make a decision, or move, or think, we move in with my parents
July - my father has a major stoke

And this is what I think of when I think of watering. I had nothing. Or at least, I felt like I had nothing. In reality, I had a good man who loved me, and parents that tolerated me, a cat. I had a cat. He was a good cat. And a window. That I looked out of, all day. The same that I had looked out as a teenager.

Nothingness. Stuck. Drugged. Xanax. Sleeping pills. Valium.

And there I was, one morning, staring awake out the window, waiting for the sun to rise and the day to start. My husband at the time, asleep beside me, spooning me, as I looked out the window and waited for my life to pass me by.

A knock on the door. My mother. She comes in. She says, I think your father has had a stroke. She says, The ambulance is on its way.

A moment like a mirror shattering. It all falls away.
I stand up. I walk. I will help, I say, let me help.

Please let me help. I want to help.

Something in me, hard like iron, bitter like biting on tinfoil. It rises to the surface, it straightens my spine. I can hold this family together, I always have, this is a part I know.

Now, my dad really had had a stroke. He was paralyzed on his left side. Months in rehab. Calls from the hospital psychiatrist. Hide his knives, take the key to the gun safe. We worry for him. We worry he can't make it back, we worry for his ego. At this time, though, I did not know how the story would end. All I knew was that it was my job to keep the house together. To clean, to cook, to pay the bills.

And to water the flowers.

Right before we'd moved in, my parents had paid a landscaper to do their whole yard over. Little purple flowers everywhere. Dianthus. Shrubs. Hostas. And a vegetable garden. Tomatos, everywhere. It was all they grew.

Once a day, in the evenings, I would go water the plants. It was a time of peace for me. I could watch the water fall. Bead off the leaves. Drip down, like a shower on the parched earth. The patter of the drops on the dirt. The hot August wind in Virginia on my face, my legs. So hot, so humid. The sound of lawnmovers, children playing blocks away. The tree frogs beginning to chirp. Watering. Watching. Nurturing.

Funny, though. Never wondering if the plants would grow. Never doubting. Never worrying. It was the one time of the way where I couldn't do anything wrong.

Even now, here, 12 years later, I still feel that same feeling of quiet when I water my yard. Listening. Letting life be.
Watering my plants.