Streams of Comfort

Roots are so much more than the part of the plant that absorbs water and sustains life. In our own stories, we have our own roots. The places and people we come from. Shaping and sustaining us in many ways. I know that for many of us we don’t always feel that our past sustains us. The opposite, in fact. The painful experiences, the sad times, and the people that hurt us. I know that feels true for me sometimes. Yet, God does not judge us for our “ugly” roots the way we do ourselves. There’s beauty in pain and sadness. In reconciliation and forgiveness. This part 3 is about our main character’s look at his own past as a step towards healing. I pray that is true for all of us.

Raindrops continued to fall. Simply because one wants the rain to stop doesn’t make it so. How horribly confusing that would be for nature. To rain or not to rain on the whims of man.
The man and his mother went back to the coffee shop. His favorite one. This time both were present in the same space, and it was good. Peaceful even, as they sat down, and the barista brought over two hot coffees. The foam had small designs. His mothers was a heart and the man’s was a tree. A Christmas tree perhaps since it was the middle of December.
As he looked across the small wooden table to the auburn-haired woman, his mother, he let out a deep breath. One he’d been holding for a long time.
It must be cliché to think that a moment will never come. Yet, he truly did not believe he’d ever see his mother again. When he moved away to London at the age of 20, he thought he closed the door on his childhood forever. His mother with it.
Now he could only stare. His hands felt stiff. Like when a speaking person has something in their throat. He looked down at his coffee, thinking about what the right thing could possibly be to say. “I’m sorry” didn’t cross his mind. His anger at his mother didn’t magically disappear. Forgiveness was a long road. But his mother took the first step and that was something. If not everything.
As he looked at the disappearing Christmas tree in his coffee, the man suddenly had a flash of memory. To a time when there were Christmas lights, and he had an old ornament in his hand. His small fingers gripping the thin ropes that held the ornament together. He could hear a baby crying in the background. His little sister. Born just a few days ago. His mother called her a Christmas miracle.
That memory is from the first Christmas he could remember in New York. His family had moved from Venezuela that same year. One of the many South American immigrants in search for a better life in 1963. His mother is from Caracas, the capitol. His father was from Coro, a city that was famous for having a desert in front of the beach.
He did not remember much from those days, but he remembered the sand and the garden.
His mother, who was a city girl her whole life until she met his father, discovered a true love of gardening. She found such peace in the solitude of tending to her flowers and vegetables. Such joy in the comfort that life is sustained by God’s breath. That through the small, everyday labor of her hands God allowed life to flourish. She would always tell him that gardening was a lot like praying. Before starting you look at what is there and give thanks. Then you slowly begin to find and pull out the weeds. Replenish the soil. Water the roots. Finally, you look at the new creation and give thanks once more.
His father would say that his wife was never more beautiful than when she was praying. Early in their marriage his father often felt remorse for taking her out of the city she loved. They met while he was in Caracas on business. Selling meats and cheeses from his family farm. She would go to his stall every morning to taste the heavenly cheese and she would bring him a roll or two of bread to share. They slowly formed a bond of love that was the foundation of their family.
The man smiles remembering how balanced his parents were with one another. Both put God first in their household and neither took the other for granted.
From the garden of their home, he could see the sand dunes in the distance. It was quite a trek to go there, so he and his father would only go a few times a year. He remembered climbing the dunes and his feet sinking into the sand with each step. As though it was nature’s way of saying that man was not made to climb up such a fickle structure. As a boy the man did not care. He climbed with the stark heat of the sun on his back. When he reached the top, he would stay silent, breathe quietly, and he could hear the almost silent rustle of the shifting sands. The breeze from the sea was mildly salty and gentle.
On the tops of those dunes was where the man had felt closest to God. He thought about what it would be like to control the winds only in this desert. How much balance would be required to maintain the dunes and the small amount of life that called this place home. Then he thought about how God holds the world in his hands. All of it. From below the roots in the ground to the highest highs of the sky. The boy would often fall to his knees in the sand and thank God for life and family.
The man was taken out of his reverie by a slight tapping on the wooden table. His mother had a gentle smile on her face. As though she knew what he was thinking. He pointed at his cup. Though the Christmas tree had long ago faded into the dark background of the coffee. He asked her, “Remember the garden?”
Her eyes lit up and she signed back, “Of course I do. It was where I prayed for you. For all of us. To be able to get through the difficult times.”
As the man looked at his mother he smiled. He felt like he was being watered by his mother. His soil was being renewed. Ready for the life ahead.

Alice R., 6/18/24