I'm still feeling a tad drunk on spring here. The smell of just-bursting lilacs surges like waves onto the porch where we eat, and I can do nothing but luxuriate in the sensation. How easy it is to ignore the responsibilities that attempt to compel me out of the seat.
“I loooooove the smell of lilacs,” I say in Dreamy Mother mood.
“I don’t,” replies Young Lady. “They smell weird. And bad.”
“Really?!?” I am shocked, disconcerted. “Who are you, and what have you done with the girl-child I birthed?”
“Well,” she says impishly, “Maybe it’s not the lilacs. Maybe it’s Brother who smells.”
Young Man is justifiably indignant. Storm clouds of Sibling Squabbles darken the horizon.
“Would you pick some flowers for the house?” I quickly ask, attempting to divert their attention.
The children run off happily, glad for the excuse to use gardening tools and any other sharp instrument of potential destruction. I myself sit back and await the tiny clusters of glory that will soon arrive, like the Queen of Sheba awaiting another shipment of gold.
Later, I notice a ladder propped up by the lilac bush. I smile to think of the children putting it here, reaching high to pull down a bit of wonder for me. This is how it should be, I think, eagerly doing what it takes to share handfuls of heaven with those around us.
For lilacs, for ladders, and for the gifts of God shared by human hands ~ we are blessed indeed.
Lisa
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