Bridge Called Hope (23 page)

“Honey … this is Ano …” Kathy began, fully recognizing
that this introduction was not going at
all
the way she had planned it. Mark’s gaze dropped from Kathy back to the prone dog on top of his feet. He seemed to be studying her for long moments. Then, without looking up … Mark quietly spoke directly to the dog and simply said, “Welcome home Ano … welcome home.”

Brian, age 4: “You know what
I want to be when I grow up?
A
man
.”

A
s far back as I can remember, the first day of May, or May Day, was always an excuse to love my grandma with flowers. She was an avid gardener, and flowers were always one of her favorite things. Even before my parents’ death, before Grandma’s home became mine, I remember how important this day was for us both.

It began when I was seven years old and continued for the next thirty-four years until she passed away.

Originally, I remember yanking handfuls of wadded-up yellow buttercups out of what was later to become a horse pasture and mashing them into an old mason jar full of water. The trick was to do a “mission impossible” up to the front door of the house, leave the flowers on the doormat, ring the doorbell, then run like a wild animal into the grapevines that grew on a low fence around the front yard. I discovered early on that this was one of the best places to hide while still being able to peek through the dense leaves and see her honest reaction to such random kindness.

The game continued, without fail, though grade school, middle school, junior high, high school, college, marriage, more college, careers, sports—every season in my life was metered and grounded by this one simple, annual event that was just
between us. May Day always represented my little “stake in the sand” opportunity to gather flowers for my grandmother and somehow get them to her doorstep without ever being seen or caught.

I am certain that on many occasions the neighbors had a good laugh at the adult granddaughter of their elderly neighbor who lived across the way. Watching a grown woman dressed head to toe in black, diving from bush to tree to rock until she was able to belly-crawl to the front door and leave flowers … and then run away like her backside was on fire! It makes me laugh out loud to think that I did that
every year
for thirty-four years!

Part of the game was that since she never caught me, technically, she never could really be truly sure that the flowers were from me. She knew they were, and I knew she knew. But she could never actually
prove
it … which always gave us reason to laugh together.

Finally, at the generous age of eighty-nine, it was time for my precious grandma to go home. She died in August, the month I was born. Somehow, this “coincidence” has continually given me great comfort. For me, it has always felt like a “passing of the torch”: “Honey, now it is
your
turn to run the race. Enjoy every moment, carry a smile on your face, the truth of Christ in your heart, and flowers in your hand …” For all that she had sacrificed for me, it is not an impression that I will ever be without.

As with everyone who has suffered great personal loss, it is no secret that the following year can be marked by many painful “firsts.” The first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, the first birthday, and for me the most painful was coming … the first May Day. This was our
special
day, a silly, symbolic pact
between us celebrated by a goofy little thing I did so she would always be reminded of how much I loved her.

Grieving is a process as unique as each individual. I have also experienced that within this “course of action,” every individual at some point has the ability to literally choose “action.” For those who are dealing with loss, grieving can lead either to anger, brokenness, and continuing personal destruction, or we can
choose
for it to lead to joy, fullness, and continuing personal growth.

My little grandma was one of the happiest people I had ever known.
Lord, life is short … I choose joy
, I thought with resolve.
Yes, this was a very special time for us. Lord … show me how I can continue to pass that gift on
, I pondered as the days proceeded toward the first of May.
I guess that a solution will present itself
, I conceded when no great, concrete ideas suddenly materialized.

A few days later, it was early morning and I was hustling to gather my keys, jacket, and water bottle, grab my cell phone, and rush out the … I nearly stepped right on them! There they were … sitting on my door step … smiling up at me … a beautiful basket full of bright yellow flowers …

Everything stopped.

The cool air of morning rushed in all around me as I just stood there holding the door open. On this day, as there had been nearly all my life, lay flowers on a doorstep. Only this year … hey were on
my
doorstep. I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t believe someone else would understand or really even care that this was a little gesture that had great personal value to me. But someone did …

Standing in the doorway, with early morning light as my witness, I slowly knelt down … picked the flowers up … held
them to my chest … and cried. “Oh, Grandma … if you only knew …”

To this day, every May first, flowers mysteriously appear on the deck in front of my door. I have no idea who the giver might be. I have never seen them, nor have they ever been caught. I have always wondered, whoever it might be, if they really understand the incredible gift they have blessed my life with by helping to keep my grandma’s memory close. I wonder if they know how truly special it is to be remembered in such a personal way. I wonder if they know that because of their remembrance … in this heart … something remarkable has happened.

Being remembered feels good. It reminds us that we are special to someone. The size or quantity of the “remembrance” really isn’t as important to us as the fact that … we just are.

Many psychology studies have concluded over and over again that one of the greatest driving forces of the human heart … is simply to be needed.

To need another person should beget thanking them as well. Sometimes we can do that in uniquely simple ways. And if we are faithful in this endeavor … every now and then, something remarkable happens.

B
ruises are evidence of where subdural bleeding has occurred. They are visual and often painful reminders of blows we have received. But unlike wounds, bruises do not leave scars. In time, deep purple turns into a rainbow of blue, violet, pink, and sometimes even a strangely beautiful yellowish green. Eventually our natural skin color returns and we are to the outside world “back to normal.” Yet, like our scars, our bruises can teach us so much more than just about pain.

I had great reason to think about the bruising blows I had received in my own life as I hiked alone one afternoon through the Cascade wilderness. While making my way up the eastern flank of a ridge toward a connecting pass, my rising footsteps were measured with nearly rhythmic “crunches” as my boots broke through the crusty snow of early spring. With the air temperature already in the twenties and rising fast, combined with the crystal blue skies overhead, this certainly qualified as one of the first “bluebird” days of the year.

As the top of the ridge rounded into view, I could feel the typical northwest air flow ruffle my clothing. It was nearly time to pray.

Lord, I have so many questions
 … My thoughts were completely interrupted as the power of the Three Sisters Mountains
towered into my view.
God, You are so amazing
 … Once I found a special place to be still, it was time to thank the Lord for life, and to ask for some well-placed guidance.

The ranch staff and I had been contacted by thousands of people who had read the book
Hope Rising.
Immediately, a resounding theme began to emerge through this correspondence: “You are living my dream. I never knew it was possible until now … Will you show me how to do the same thing?” Daily, it became an echoing cry for reassurance, encouragement, and help.

Who am I, Lord, to show them the way?
I thought, in full recognition of all my mistakes and shortcomings.
Sometimes I feel like nothing more than a bare-fisted prize fighter who gets the stuffings beat out of him every other day. Often, I am bruised and bloodied. Perhaps my only real “talent” is just getting back up from all the times that I have been knocked down.

For all those looking for direction … Lord, I’m just a simple rancher who loves kids and horses and lives in a nine-acre converted rock pit.
My honest inadequacies were confessed aloud to Sevi and Chloe, my blue-heeler companions, who were hiking with me. As is customary for me, I had found a particularly beautiful viewpoint and began quieting my heart to pray.

There, in the silence, blowing gently through the trees and swirling into my heart, a familiar, peaceful response began to whisper: “You are a simple rancher who loves kids and horses and lives in a nine-acre converted rock pit … why
not
you? You are entangled with the same mistakes and shortcomings as everyone else … why
not
you? You are a small pebble plucked from a stream, and when thrown by My hand, giants in the lives of those around you have fallen; it is not your strength, but Mine … why
not
you?”