Alive with Promise

Many years ago we inherited a hutch from my husband’s Hungarian grandmother (the creator of unique crumb-crusted plum dumplings) that now stands in our dining area facing the window to the lake.  When our kids were little tykes, the shelves in its lower half housed their coloring books and crayons. A few assorted breakable trinkets lived in safety behind 2 glass doors that enclosed the more difficult-to-reach upper portion. 

However, in this senior phase of our life it has become a distinguished heirloom - old but special - with more sophisticated use. Inherited glass platters and serving bowls are stored on the bottom shelves, some dating to the 1800’s, and a collection of antique blue-and-white porcelain plates and nick-knacks are displayed on the top shelves behind glass.

On a winter day like today, the late afternoon sun streams across the frozen lake and into our house, bathing the seasoned golden oak hutch with graceful ivy vines cascading down the sides: beautiful simplicity.  It’s an inviting piece of historical family furniture framed in natural elegance, awash in a brash celestial floodlight.

Today I found myself studying this familiar relic from my spot at our oval oak table (another scarred old relic) as the sun poured into the house.  As I peeked through the little glass doors at the usual blue-and-white curios in their respective assigned places, I also spotted an imposter: a clear glass vase standing in a back corner, sparkling in the sunlight. 

At the sight of that vase, a high tide of recollection joined the sunshine to flood the room.  Memories of fierce, furnace-hot summer sun.  Prickles on my bare shoulders.  Grandkids playing in the shallow water. Waves splashing-sloshing-laughing against the seawall behind them. Delicate blossoms bobbing in the wind, shedding sweet fragrance.  

A day alive with promise.

Back then…back in the aliveness of summer…I’d wanted to immortalize the day, to capture and save a portion of it somehow.  So I’d knelt beside the rugged little bush growing beside the pier as if it might be holy, and sacrificed its beauty by scissor-snipping a handful of tough stems topped with aromatic lavender blossoms.  Then I stashed my bouquet-of-promise in the little hutch.

Back in the reality of today, I rose from my chair with remembrance prodding me.

I approached the hutch and reverently opened the glass doors for the first time since August.  A wash of lavender deliciousness wafted into the room. Reaching back over the tops of the eggcup, wee windmill, and silver demitasse spoons with the decorative handles – the miniature ceramic tea set, thimbles, and tiny Dutch shoes - I pulled the vase from its confinement and gently stirred the dry, grayish-purple blossoms with my pointer finger.

With the winter sun beating through the window onto my back, I breathed deeply of lavender.  It seemed to permeate my whole body, and perhaps my soul as well, to remind me what it means to live victoriously...to be alive with ongoing promise.