Month: March 2018

Great Flocks of Robins

~ beachbumpoppy ~ 1 Comment

If this day had entered a beauty contest, she would not have won any of the competitions; not the evening gown, swimsuit or talent phases. At best she might have managed a consolation prize, just for being a spring day and not the winter version. It was not a pretty day!

It had rained off and on all day, the sun was AWOL, and the temperature hovered in the mid 40’s. Roiling banks of low hanging graphite colored clouds appeared almost as solid as the asphalt beneath my feet. There was no doubt this was a spring day though, the calendar proclaimed it and signs of its arrival were everywhere.

When Mimsy and I left the house for our late afternoon stroll, I took in a deep breath of damp air. Ahh, the bouquet of spring; the rich fertile scent of moist earth, poised to bring forth new growth, faint odors of last seasons fallen leaves that had escaped the clutching fingers of the rake, and the fragrance of new grass. If I detected this potpourri of spring scents, I could only imagine what Mimsy with her heightened olfactory nerves was enjoying.

There were no less than 4 or 5 robins in the front yard, busily disturbing the clumps of grass and weeds in search of insects and worms. At some prescribed day in early winter, all robins must receive an eviction notice, demanding an immediate relocation. Where do they go? I have never seen great flocks of robins flying south or returning north. A quick internet search would provide the answer, but I don’t mind a little mystery here and there. I am content to sit back and enjoy the miracle.

Once again, my weeds have successfully survived the winter. God must have a deep and abiding love for weeds and mosquitoes. He gave them the gift of survival, the ability to pop back every spring regardless of how frigid the temperatures drop during the previous season.

“You wouldn’t last two days,” I tell Mimsy, “Does that mean God loves mosquitos and weeds more than you?”

She looks up, chuffs, and continues walking.

That Mimsy does not posses the independent survival attributes of the weeds and mosquitoes, does not concern her. She is secure in the knowledge that she has people who love her. She knows her needs will be met, that she will be taken care of, no matter how cold the winters or how long they last. It’s a level of trust I’m still working on.

As we turn to go back home, I smash the first mosquito of the year against the back of my hand.

Poppy

Lillie Bell Goes Home

~ beachbumpoppy ~ 12 Comments

We walked with Lillie Bell as far as we could, but at the edge of the long gangplank she left us behind, walking toward the great ship alone.  I had hoped at some point she would turn and wave, but her gaze never varied, and her step never faltered, she was resolute in her desire to reach the next destination.

The sun was breaking over the horizon. Brilliant shades of coral and gold defined the line between the sea and the sky. The darkness of the night fled before the piercing rays that announced a new day, a new beginning.

I shielded my eyes to make out the details before me.  The crew that welcomed her aboard, backlit by the rising sun, appeared to glow against the azure sky as if they had wings.

The morning breeze picked up as the sails began to unfurl. Even at this distance, I heard the snap as the canvas caught the wind, becoming taunt, straining to be on their way. The ship was ancient, but the workmanship was beyond compare. Each wood plank polished and tightly fitted against its brethren. The sails were as pure a white as I have seen. As the crew cast off the lines and the ship turned slowly toward the horizon, the stern swung around revealing the name, “ZION,” spelled out in letters of gold

Surrounded by family and friends, we exchanged hugs and smiles, unspoken was the sentiment … it was time. We watched as the ship grew smaller and smaller until it was just a white dot. When the vessel slipped over the horizon and out of our sight, we raised our hands triumphantly and cheered.

Lillie Bell’s journey had been long, her pilgrimage lasting 102 years. Through it all she had steadfastly followed her Savior. For 78 of those years she had walked alongside her other great love, Ray. She had never been without those who loved her, and she returned that love in even greater measure.

Though we could no longer see the ship, we knew it was headed for another port. There, a great multitude awaited her arrival, watching as the ship which had disappeared from our sight grew larger and larger in their field of vision.

The gangplank at the port Lillie Bell had embarked from was constructed of wood planks, rough and splintered with age, turned a weathered grey by the sun and salt spray. The gangplank the ship was turning into at this port was of white marble, gleaming under a cloudless sky. It led to a circular courtyard. In the center of the courtyard was an intricate design of three interlocked circles constructed of gemstones and defined on the outer edges by bands of gold.

On either side of the courtyard, halfway around its circumference, were a pair of sweeping stairs, also made of white marble. They lead to a balcony that overlooked the courtyard. Built into the wall behind the courtyard and below the balcony was an alcove containing a large marble statue of a lamb, its foreleg resting over a slender gold cross extending over its back.

A solitary figure stood on the balcony, his white robes gleaming under a light-source that had no definable origin. He rested his elbows on the balustrade, fingers locked together, faint scars visible on the back of each hand. Looking down at the assembled crowd on the courtyard a smile crossed his face before he addressed his children. “Lillie Bell has fought a good fight, she has kept the faith. Today I called her home … it was time.”

Among the crowd were old friends and family. Saints who had toiled alongside Ray and Lillie Bell in the vineyard. The Morgans, the Chambers, the Boxes, the Wallaces, Roams and Yadons … too many to name, and of course members of the Boatman and Agnew families.

Standing slightly apart from the crowd was a tall man with dark wavy hair, a slight grin on his face. “It’s about time,” he said with a slow Texas drawl, “She was always running late for everything.” He laughed and started to walk toward the gangplank, “It’s about time.”

Poppy

Lillie Bell Agnew
December 25, 1915 – March 8, 2018