“How often it is a small, almost unconscious event that makes a turning point.”
― Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place
On Monday, the Elmhurst Garden Club celebrated our scholar recipients with a festive, delicious, nourishing “spread”. Tables were adorned with bookish centerpieces and the names of the scholarship recipients. The meeting’s highlights were the creative and informative presentations by these worthy scholars. They give me hope for the future.
On Tuesday, I put a few bits of our home back to order; the “this” and “that” which become jumbled when one has been laid up for a spell. It feels good, does it not, to slowly get back to normal – whatever your normal may be? I then doused some “fires” that had been simmering, learning a few new tricks of the technology trade as I did. While I whimper over how many issues seem to cross over my virtual desk, I do love a challenge and the opportunities to still grow and learn and be useful.
On Wednesday, as I wended my way down the Cutoff, a Cooper’s Hawk caught my attention. He was perched on a branch, not ten feet from my car. As I rolled down my winter-smudged window, we stared, eye-to-eye, for a few pregnant moments. He then he tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders and rose, his magnificent feathers barely whispering in the crisp wintry air. I so love the sound of a bird taking flight; that almost imperceptible instant of take-off that catches the air.
On Thursday, which was colder than cold, the Antler Man and I spent the afternoon at the retinologist, heading home as the sun was setting. I iced my knee, then headed back in the same direction I had just come from. Sometimes I wonder if my life isn’t just making a rut in the road with my tires. I nibbled on a few crackers (I’m telling a fib; they were Oreos) parked my car, and was greeted by Marilyn, who always make me feel good just telling me hello. We were headed to Hammerschmidt Chapel at Elmhurst College, picking up other friends along the way, with Bev driving . Like the good little pilgrims we are, we filled two pews and chattered away, not missing a beat, from one conversation to the next, turning left and right and behind, as only women can do.
Our rewards for venturing out on a frigid night were twofold: the first being the rising of our faithful friend, the moon, who crept up over the roof of the student union, round and full, casting its reflection upon the sleak slate of icy snow on the college’s quad. It brought to my mind Corrie ten boom’s “almost unconscious event” as we oohed and ahhed, greeting others who also stopped to look at the moon before heading inside for a most remarkable and challenging lecture by Sister Simone Campbell. Also known as the Nun on the Bus, she was the second reward and the reason for our evening’s adventure. She made us laugh and challenged all in attendance with her faith and her life’s mission of justice.
Now, it is Friday. The week is nearly spent. The sun is shining, defying the mere 10th degree. There are deceptively thin sheets of ice to navigate and shards of icicles hanging from eaves; weapons of nature to avoid. We are still bundled up beyond recognition and so weary of winter we could cry – but our tears would freeze. Our mothers told us so, many full moons ago.
We are, however, at a turning point. There, in the snow and ice and rotting leaves of last Autumn, low on the ground and ever-so-tentative, are the precious tips of daffodils pushing through frozen soil, poking and shoving, demanding this winter to cease.
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