I Know Not How

Six months ago today was also a Tuesday. Partly cloudy, but with sun enough. A mild fall.



October had just begun and there was promise of a new month. "I will do better, be better." Yet I sat at that computer in the afternoon, inside, in the dark, as I do now. Typing. Writing. Browsing. Escaping.

The phone rang. Startled me out of my stupor.

It was my Dad's cell, not my Mom's. And I knew before I even answered--something was wrong. While he was talking, I started packing anyway, a frantic attempt to do something useful. To go. To drive. To get there in time. In time for what? To see her one last time? Dad would not tell me what to do.

Somehow I found myself talking with a nurse at the hospital, who wasn't much help. I kept asking questions and kept getting no answers. How long had they been doing CPR? I was a bit hysterical, admittedly. No one had confirmed yet that she was dead. No one confirmed anything.

This time, the phone was passed to another nurse, someone I knew. And so I walked outside the front door, leaving my children inside the house, so that I might breathe alone and better hear the words of my childhood friend.


My friend Kacie, someone I'd known since I was three, was working as a nurse at the hospital that day. Thank Providence for that! Her words calmed me. She kept me from jumping in the van and driving the five hours alone with the boys, and for that I am grateful.

I stood outside our house, pacing in front of the walkway. I looked at the turning trees and the patchy grass and the leaves starting to fall, but I didn't really see. I was already somewhere else.

When I finally talked to my Dad again, I knew. I looked out the window and saw the deer standing outside the window and I knew.

My mother was gone and so was I. Part of me, at least.

For six months I have been somewhere else. Like the deer. Hiding. It has been a long winter.

I feel like I've been buried, too.

Today, spring is appearing. It's another Tuesday. The second of the month, yet again. Life goes on around us, little green shoots push their way up through the ground, buds begin to burst forth, dirt thaws.

The sun is shining. And I am starting to emerge.

The trees out front still look mostly bare. The Bradfords have bloomed, but only just. The yard fills up with flowering weeds. The deer have returned.

The forsythia struggles. I hacked at it in a fit of something last fall and chopped off most of the branches. But even it, once devastated, still bursts forth.

This afternoon, we planted seeds. Wildflowers and tomatoes, cucumbers and chrysanthemums. Watermelons. The boys chose a mix --whatever was in the box from last year. We covered our gifted mint and thyme seedlings with water and soil. We pray there will be no more frost.

I poke my head out. The sun? It's still there? Yes.

Easter has come. The Kingdom with it, slowly breaking through.

Looking outside, I see the signs. The Seed sprouts and grows, I know not how. It dies and gets up again. I know not how.

I just hope and wait.

Daily we will tend and water, watching expectantly for new life. For resurrection.

I have been told that the tiniest of seeds will grow into a mustard tree so large that all the birds of the air will come rest in its branches.

I know not how, only that it will be. And I am thankful.