snow

Barefoot Peaches

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With knees pulled in close I watched the rain linger on my peach tree branches like diamonds gracing ear lobes. They hung until they were too heavy, held too much and then fell. One by one they went.

Tink. Plink-tink. 

It became a song the likes of Disney could form into a magical illusion. I saw Fantasia. It was creepy. But the way of rain is my tune. A beat of the gutter, percussion on the patio. It was all very romantic save for the permeating smell of trash. Sidenote: why do ripe strawberries and melons stink of garbage? Anyone? Bueller?

***
I want peaches so badly. When I drove home a few years ago with the fresh purchase, peachy tree roots swaddled like a promise, I had visions of overflowing bushels of fruit I’d carry into the house each August. I wanted to brag about my bare feet and sweet bounty. Make jam and stuff.
Yeah, not a single bloom in three years. Because Colorado thinks snow on Mother’s Day is one wild prank. It is, my friends.

Last spring I coerced my husband into wrapping our bushes. We wove frost-resistant tarp around our lilacs and I dug up my lettuce seedlings. It is so much stinking work to garden in this climate. I swear I fret more over a half-inch plant than I do my children’s souls. OK, that’s going a smidgen far. My point is I stress plenty over those stupid things.

The storm crescendoed only to steady again. I’d seen the forecast for the weekend: worst blizzard in decades (my interpretation).
Familiar angst started to rise. I began to make mental checklists of supplies, materials, and gallons of milk.

Until I didn’t.

What if I decide stillness? How will this play out if I drop my shoulders and travel the way of trust? 

Not only did the snow come it sifted all night, weighing heavy on limbs and leaves, breaking branches and giving me a stomachache. An inch would have been plenty but no, we got six for pity’s sake. 

Morning dawned like a war zone. Flowers bent low and trees were pinned to the ground. And a knowing started to invade my heart when I looked at the trees, their trunks still sturdy.

Storms can leave us battered and bruised, but when we trust we are held in every outcome they don’t uproot us.

“A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out. In faithfulness He will bring forth justice.”  -Isaiah 42:3, NIV

What Do I Say?

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Weaving my way around this drive-thru Starbucks is like a game of Pac Man. I’m inside lugging 15 pounds of notes and books, a computer and one small power cord to my phone that does not make or break the weight, but can be the deciding factor of whether I will still get emergency calls from the school about forgotten lunches. So I keep it.

I see moms pulling out all manner of Crayons and Hello Kitty coloring pages. There are meetings between Metros and women who are avoiding the highway in this mess of snow. Which is quite pretty from my view over a steaming mocha.

“Would you mind if I share this table with you?” I ask her.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m leaving soon anyway.”

Lovely. There are reasonable people in this society.

Her hair is chopped with texture that doesn’t happen right out of bed. She highlights her makeup around the dark lipstick she’s chosen to accent her emerald dress. Her knee-high, black, healed boots are professional, with sass. And she has the personal skills of a great salesman. Someone who works with people, likes people, makes people her business.

I’m guessing, of course.

“The snow is much prettier from here,” I say.
She doesn’t hesitate. “I know. The highway is still closed.”
“Oh, it is?” I wouldn’t know. I only see it when I’m finding a Costco. And I don’t watch the news because all I need in the morning besides strong coffee, enough Pop-Tarts to split three ways, and a drop-off lane, is the school cancellation number.
“My husband was here but he thought he’d give it a try. He’s still sitting.”
Yeah, I’m with you. I’d rather be stuck in a coffee Taj Mahal too.

She didn’t ask what I’m doing here. I didn’t offer. What do I say?
Well, I’m writing a book. (I know. Who isn’t? Yes, I do realize the statistics.) My second try. The story, the idea, gives me chills. I believe in it and some say I’m great with words. I have almost 4,000 of them but they could all be bad. I’ll probably get lots of rejection letters but you know what? I’m doing it anyway. Because if I could write my own headstone whenever the time comes that I need one, it would say: She Held Nothing Back.