anniversary gifts

6 05 2004

Last night George and I went for a walk through a lovely old neighborhood. There’s one lot at the top of a hill with a steep, crumbling staircase that leads down to the street below. A large, wood-framed house used to sit on the lot, but it was condemned and torn down years ago. No trace of the house remains. Now the lot is an expanse of grass with huge trees–the kind of place you would imagine fairies and elves might gather for parties and dance in the light of fireflies after the world goes to sleep.

We meandered around this grassy paradise at twilight, that magical moment between day and night when anything seems possible. We paused beside an ancient tree with bulbous knobs on its trunk. High above our heads, thick jagged branches shot like leafy lightning bolts from the massive trunk. Looking up I sensed the history of this tree enveloping me: the children who had hidden among the branches, the lovers who’d sat in its shade and vowed solemn promises, the secrets it had witnessed and heard through the open windows of the house that once stood nearby. Could the tree still see and hear phantoms of its past? I longed to capture the echos of its story that swirled around me. So I listened. And heard.

George and I sat on the top step of the crumbling staircase as the last pink glow of sunset faded before us. A bright planet shone in the western sky. One by one stars popped out of their hiding places as the embers of sunset cooled. We sat there for a long time, talking with the easy comfort of people who’ve know each other well for many years–lovers secure in their love.

God spoke to me last night. He spoke in the tree. He spoke in the primrose hedge encompassing a stretch of fence that no longer fences anything–a fence that many someones through the years couldn’t bear to tear down destroying the perenial beauty of the roses. He spoke in the shining planet and the winking stars. He spoke in the nearness of the man I know better than any other creature created in God’s image.

I love being quiet with God, because I love hearing Him speak.


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24 responses

6 05 2004
wordgeek

This is beautiful.

I know the place you speak of quite well. Jen and I used to walk there and pick blooms from the camelia bushes.

Have to admit, though. I was glad when they tore the old house down. It was creepy.

6 05 2004
wordgeek

This is beautiful.

I know the place you speak of quite well. Jen and I used to walk there and pick blooms from the camelia bushes.

Have to admit, though. I was glad when they tore the old house down. It was creepy.

6 05 2004
gaia43

::Sigh::

Nights like that make everything else seem to fade into the shadows. How perfect!

6 05 2004
gaia43

::Sigh::

Nights like that make everything else seem to fade into the shadows. How perfect!

6 05 2004
jeannedamoff

I kinda like creepy old houses. I always wonder what treasures might be hidden there, lost and forgotten in some secret panel in the wall.

Luke loves that hill. He goes there to sit alone and think, especially when storms are rolling in. It really does seem to be an enchanted sort of place. Whenever we walk by it, I’m drawn to linger. I love that you and Jen used to walk there, too. That will be part of its story for me now. :o)

♥ EZ

6 05 2004
jeannedamoff

I kinda like creepy old houses. I always wonder what treasures might be hidden there, lost and forgotten in some secret panel in the wall.

Luke loves that hill. He goes there to sit alone and think, especially when storms are rolling in. It really does seem to be an enchanted sort of place. Whenever we walk by it, I’m drawn to linger. I love that you and Jen used to walk there, too. That will be part of its story for me now. :o)

♥ EZ

6 05 2004
jeannedamoff

Re: ::Sigh::

You’re right. It’s a perfect moment. A brief rising above the tyrrany of the daily grind. A whispered “all is well.” That’s why I wrote it down. It’s such a simple memory . . . nothing momentous to etch it on one’s consciousness. Words are inadequate, but that’s all I have, so they will have to do. Thanks for sharing it with me.

6 05 2004
jeannedamoff

Re: ::Sigh::

You’re right. It’s a perfect moment. A brief rising above the tyrrany of the daily grind. A whispered “all is well.” That’s why I wrote it down. It’s such a simple memory . . . nothing momentous to etch it on one’s consciousness. Words are inadequate, but that’s all I have, so they will have to do. Thanks for sharing it with me.

6 05 2004
wordgeek

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love abandoned houses. It was just that one in particular. When we lived in the apartment, I always felt like someone was in there watching us.

One night after coming home, I was going up the back steps and I could just feel this “creepiness” all around me, and I was sure it was coming from that house. I had the screendoor propped open, as we were carrying in groceries. Just as we finished and I was turning to shut the door, the little bracket started to slide, and the door began to close with a series of starts and stops.

Wham! Wham! Wham! Six or seven times until it was finally all the way closed. And I stood watching the whole thing with my lungs up somewhere near my tonsils. I think I prayed over the whole apartment that night, and I was glad when they leveled the old house.

6 05 2004
wordgeek

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love abandoned houses. It was just that one in particular. When we lived in the apartment, I always felt like someone was in there watching us.

One night after coming home, I was going up the back steps and I could just feel this “creepiness” all around me, and I was sure it was coming from that house. I had the screendoor propped open, as we were carrying in groceries. Just as we finished and I was turning to shut the door, the little bracket started to slide, and the door began to close with a series of starts and stops.

Wham! Wham! Wham! Six or seven times until it was finally all the way closed. And I stood watching the whole thing with my lungs up somewhere near my tonsils. I think I prayed over the whole apartment that night, and I was glad when they leveled the old house.

6 05 2004
jeannedamoff

Great imagination makes a great writer! ;o) Yours is obviously quite healthy. You should write a story about the ghost who lived in the old house and came over to slam your screen door that night. (Maybe he was offended by Jen’s menu choices. He was probably a vegan ghost.)

By the way, thanks for saying this was beautiful. That means a lot to me.

6 05 2004
jeannedamoff

Great imagination makes a great writer! ;o) Yours is obviously quite healthy. You should write a story about the ghost who lived in the old house and came over to slam your screen door that night. (Maybe he was offended by Jen’s menu choices. He was probably a vegan ghost.)

By the way, thanks for saying this was beautiful. That means a lot to me.

7 05 2004
ljadministrator

…Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

*sniff*

Jesse

7 05 2004
ljadministrator

…Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

*sniff*

Jesse

9 05 2004
jeannedamoff

Thanks, Jesse. :o)

9 05 2004
jeannedamoff

Thanks, Jesse. :o)

10 05 2004
ljadministrator

Always. 🙂

Jesse

10 05 2004
ljadministrator

Always. 🙂

Jesse

21 06 2005
acornstwo

Beautiful

Jeanne, my husband’s name is George, too, so I just completely lived the moment through your words. Beautiful. Thank you.
K.P.

21 06 2005
acornstwo

Beautiful

Jeanne, my husband’s name is George, too, so I just completely lived the moment through your words. Beautiful. Thank you.
K.P.

21 06 2005
acornstwo

Beautiful

Jeanne, my husband’s name is George, too, so I just completely lived the moment through your words. Beautiful. Thank you.
K.P.

22 06 2005
jeannedamoff

Re: Beautiful

You’re welcome! Thank you for such a lovely compliment. ♥

J.

22 06 2005
jeannedamoff

Re: Beautiful

You’re welcome! Thank you for such a lovely compliment. ♥

J.

22 06 2005
jeannedamoff

Re: Beautiful

You’re welcome! Thank you for such a lovely compliment. ♥

J.

Your comments are a gift. Please know I read each one with gratitude.

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