Spring is here.

We were in the basement under tornado warning last night, but by morning the storm was over, the sky was clear, and the season had changed.

I stopped at the park for a few minutes this evening before the sun went down. The paths were dry. The first flowers were up and the air smelled like earth and pine needles. It was warm, too warm for me, because I’d come in a coat. I was the only person there wearing one — almost everyone else was in shorts.

Alabama is ready for spring. Alabama lives ready for sunshine.

I’ve been reading about resurrection lately, about how the life of a Christian is the future life brought into the present. It’s a life marked by love, and love is life-giving as if there’s nothing lost and nothing to lose, as if no one has hurt us or can hurt us, as if nothing can touch us. Love is the signpost of life on the way.

So maybe right now we’re riding out the storm, together, waiting for the worst to pass. But when it’s over everything will be clear and the season will have changed. The paths will be ready, the flowers will be up, and the air will be clean and good.

Ready for spring. Ready for sunshine. And let’s be dressed for it.

We hosted Game Night on Friday for the young adults’ Sunday class.

There was a table of Nertz, one of Aggravation, and another of UNO. There was a puzzle and a guitar in the living room for introverts and a counter full of snacks and drinks in the kitchen for everyone.

Seven people came; altogether we were fifteen.

It felt so Banks.

Photo credit: Geoff. (I was busy losing rounds of UNO and didn’t take pictures.)

Judy was wearing Estonian socks when I visited the other day, socks embroidered with flowers.

When we first moved to Estonia I wondered at the stitching that was everywhere. It was on everything from slippers to handkerchiefs and throw pillows… Little flowers, berries, vines and leaves, stalks of wheat, little growing things.

“Hmm, cute.” But wheat, berries, flowers, leaves… What did they mean to me?

But when you’ve found strawberries in the forest while camping in the summer, you know what berries are. They’re a surprise. And when you’ve seen cornflowers in a friend’s garden or brought home a summer bunch from the stalls at Freedom Square, you know what cornflowers are. They’re warmth and light and the simple colors of your country. And when you’ve wondered for weeks whether spring would really come, you know the relief from seeing the little green things begin to grow. They’re life after winter, and there’s hope again.

And the wheat… The wheat means food from the earth and bread for your bones when there have been times you’ve needed the strength it’s given.

Once things are something to you, even the very smallest of them matter a great deal. The ones that mean life, your life, you want to put everywhere.

On your slippers, your handkerchiefs, covering your pillows.

On your socks.

We miss something by not being connected to the world, the real world. It seems like beautiful things, like florals, for instance, are coming to merely mean “fashionable”, or “unfashionable”. But does that say much for us? And when we find our favorite color palettes in magazines or color wheels instead of sunrises on the sea or trees in a fog or anything else we’ve fallen in love with, are we settling for something?

I feel like we’re getting gradually more disconnected, from the world, from each other; and we’re finding fewer reasons to be grateful. So much is flat now, and smooth, and we’re becoming very comfortable with gray because it’s gray.

But how good when things are something. Different to you, to me, but full of meaning that grows when we share what we love with each other.

The flowers on Judy’s socks made me feel so many things.

It’s what the flowers are to me.

 

I went to the dentist. He filled my tooth. #30, was it?

After the tooth was filled and set he started to shape the filling down to the right size.

He worked a little then stuck a tiny piece of paper in my mouth, “Bite down on this.”

I bit; I opened my mouth. He took out the paper, looked at it, then worked a little more.

“Bite down again.” More work.

“Again.” And still more work.

I thought that he was like an artist, like a sculptor maybe, working carefully, making all those little changes.

Making all those little changes.

I was visiting someone the other day and they offered me hot chocolate.

It was great. They even put marshmallows in it. The whole time I sat there, though, a guest in my friend’s kitchen, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t behaving well. It was like being in the right scenario but in the wrong role.

“I’m the one who makes hot chocolate for other people.”

I had flashbacks of pulling O’Boy out of my cabinet in Tartu for people who came by, pouring and stirring and handing them a warm cup on a cold day while offering a place to sit while we talked. It was my favorite thing to do. But now I was the guest, and someone was doing all of that for me. It made me self-conscious and uncomfortable — not the friend, nor the gift, but being served.

But it’s just hot chocolate, Jaime.

It is, it’s just hot chocolate. So I’m trying to figure out why… Why is it so much harder for me to be served than to serve? What is that?

Maybe it’s a pride thing. Maybe it’s because I feel that to be a proper person I’m supposed to be taking care of myself and the people around me — the worldview creeping in that it’s our personal responsibility to be the caregivers of all. And I had nothing to offer in return, I could just sit there with the warm cup and slurp marshmallows.

I wonder if that feeling is why people don’t have each other over as much — at least here in the States we don’t. We meet for coffee; we go out to eat. Everyone pays for themselves. We keep things even, even if that means at arm’s length. That way those with less at home aren’t embarrassed by what they lack, and those with more aren’t embarrassed by what they have. Equality and all that.

But I don’t think that’s how relationships actually work. Real friendships aren’t about everyone being even, they’re about everyone being all in.

How to behave here is still confusing at times, but I think I need to relax a little. True friends and their gifts should be enjoyed without worrying about what I have to give in return because my heart is open to the giver.

And it is. Whenever it’s my turn to give, whatever I have, I’m all in.

I didn’t know if I should make the trip. Money was tight, I’d been sick, it was a long way…

But in ten hours we were in Texas. Uncle Duane drove me to the back pasture in his pickup to dig up flower bulbs for our yard — snow bells from Uncle Tuffy’s old farm, flowers from Duane’s Aunt Tiny’s place, and more besides. We went back to the house and drank root beer by the fire pit before the rest came out to join us with bbq brisket, cole slaw, and giant campfire marshmallows to roast.

Mamma came to talk with us when we made it back inside. She’s moving more slowly, but she’s funnier than ever. And gentle and good. She never complains.

We sat together: Mamma between Nancy and Mom on the couch, Sherrie in the armchair, Geoff and I on the floor. We sat and talked and were together.

The next day I went to Stephany’s. I met her newest baby and played with the two older ones; Kevin kept the kids till late so we could go out and do girly stuff and all along the way we shared our real lives. That night Stephany home-made tomato soup, and there was crispy baked chicken with bacon and herbs. And we stayed awake and talked more.

Stephany’s the best. Though our lives are different, we’re in life together. That’s the truest friend.

Wednesday I visited with Ron and Judy. Their energy and the ways they’re finding to give are quite amazing. Ron still studies and paints; Judy stays busy teaching and serving everywhere she can. I’ve always loved how artistic they are, how they see beauty everywhere, and I was happy to find them still creating and looking for lovely things. I felt, as ever, the love they have for God and for his good world.  As I headed out, I felt deeply grateful for the place they have in my life and the ways they’ve influenced me for the better.

From there it was to Paris. My phone died and the gps with it, and I got lost in the rain. I pulled over at a gas station/diner to get directions, and as I went inside I noticed three older men sitting at a table near the back. There were two white men and a black man; all were wearing hats and overalls and they leaned toward each other over the table and talked about farming and everyday things. They seemed glad to be there, like very old friends. And then the two girls working the register happily helped me, searching for the route I should go and how long the drive would take me. One of them ran out just as I was starting the van, making sure I knew the way to the highway. It brought to mind the goodness in people.

I made it to church before everyone left and got to see a few familiar faces. It’s always interesting to go back to a place where people knew you as a child. “Do you remember me?” some asked. And I remembered.

I spent two days with Jay and Gay. They’re something between friends and parents, which there’s probably a word for in another language. I’d like to know that word.

We ate oatmeal in Gay’s kitchen and talked about life. It felt right to be there, sitting at the bar on the old bar stools. And the next day was more Together — we had blueberry muffins, spent time with Clay’s crew, Jay worked on my teeth, we toured Rachel’s house then I spent time with her and her kids (the most creative kids). A group of us ate dinner together, then back at the house, once the girls were asleep, Gay made me a malt, Jay built a fire, and they listened and counseled until it was late.

It’s good to have wise friends. And kind friends. It’s good to have people in your life who see you, and to know families built on love.

I left the next morning with the sense that there’s a part of that love that’s still for me, after so many years, and it may have brought tears to my eyes. It really may.

I met Mom and Geoff a couple of hours down the road, and ten hours later we were back in Alabama.

And that’s how God takes care of me.

I was babysitting the boys one night a few months ago. Canon was asleep and I was getting Barrett ready for bed when things got very still in the house. Suddenly we heard a noise that I’d never heard before. Apparently Barrett hadn’t either.

“What was that?” he asked.

I felt unsettled, being alone with the boys, but answered, “Well, I don’t know… Maybe it was it was the pipes. They run under the house and make noise sometimes.”

He thought a minute then, almost ready to cry, said, “I’m scared…”

I didn’t have anything more helpful at the moment to tell him, so I pulled him up into my lap and told him a story.

You know, I used to live faaar away in China, alone, in a big apartment. And sometimes I’d come home after classes at night and it would be really dark and I would feel afraid. But then I’d remember that Jesus promised that he would never, ever, leave me, and that God is stronger and greater than anything in the world, anything that would make me feel scared. And that helped me feel less alone and braver.

I asked if he thought God was with us and he said that he did. He relaxed and we both felt better. We turned on his sound machine; he picked a few songs for us to sing and laugh over. I switched off the light and left him happy, and soon he was asleep.

I washed some dishes. Chris and Jennifer came home. Life went on and I forgot all about it.

Several days later we were playing together, with LEGOs or Playmobile or something, when he absentmindedly asked, “Can you tell me that story again?” “What story, Barrett?” “The one about God, the one where you weren’t scared any more.”

So I told him again. And then we went back to playing and life went on to other things.

But he remembered. Kids remember.

Our stories matter.

“Jaime Banks, here, take this! It’s my favorite…”

Gay Spencer came out of her room with a blanket and handed it to me on my way upstairs. I had come to visit them for a couple of days and was glad to have finally arrived a little earlier after driving in the rain and getting lost on the way from Dallas.

I took the blanket, double-thick, soft, and heavy. I went up to Jaymie’s old room, laid it out on the bed, set my things down on the floor, and went back downstairs to sit at the bar, eat oatmeal with Jay, and catch up on life till late.

And then I slept well, under all that weight and warmth; I don’t even remember dreaming.

Days later, I’m still thinking about that blanket. Even more than something set aside for a guest, it was her very own.

“Love” — what does it mean? Something like this, I think:

Here, take this. It’s my favorite…

The sun came out for a few minutes this morning. Besides that there hasn’t been much evidence in the last couple of weeks of Alabama’s warm and sunny nature.

It’s not all bad, though.

It was drizzling when I crossed the street to meet Kaci for lunch. It felt right to be on my feet, in the city, in the rain.

When I get cold at home I have my Haapsalu shawl from Triin, a quilt from Aunt Sherrie, and my blue wool socks that Merlin knitted.

Tea.

We found a YouTube video of a fire in a fireplace and occasionally have it playing in the family room.

And on it goes…

Rain is only rain, and when spring comes we’ll be glad it came.

One afternoon, before I left Joplin, Canon and I went to the park.

We strollered to “our campsite” (B calls it), a place off the path that’s perfect for hammocking and tenting and sword-fighting with sticks.

It was warm for December. I hung the hammock and let it blow. We played in the leaves with rocks and sticks; Canon adventured around the biggest tree, holding onto the trunk as he went.

After a while we climbed into the hammock. We sat sideways so I could swing us with my feet on the ground. I put my arm around him and we leaned back and watched the treetops and the sky for a long time, back and forth. And Canon was still and quiet, just watching.

I read a book once about oral cultures, and about how people possibly retained information better through stories and songs than textually like we do. I figure it’s especially good for kids before they can read and write, so I sing a lot with the boys — songs we know, songs we make up. It’s fun, but maybe it’s more than fun. At the very least they learn something about how language works and how we play with it.

So swinging at the campsite I made up a tune and fit some words about the things we could see and what it was like to be in the hammock at the park on such a day. And Canon listened.

After a few verses I stopped, then asked,

“Can you sing a song, Canon?”

Silence…

I waited. Another few moments, then he started to quietly sing. He’s little still, so there weren’t really words, but it was a song — Canon’s song.

Back and forth, and he sang some more. I don’t know what he said, but I think I know what he meant. After a while he was quiet again; I looked down and saw that he’d sung himself to sleep.

It was a good moment, one I thought I should write down to remember.

The very quiet can sing.