An imprint. A sign, an indelible mark of something impressed upon another thing. Imprints tell us lots of things. Here we have a shovel left on the ground from where I'd dug up some iris bulbs for a friend I have. I thought she could probably get them put in her flower bed early enough to bloom for Spring. I hope so. The shovel reminded me that I had put the bulbs in my car and they needed to go in a box and to the post office so they'd make it to her in time for Valentine's Day. She got them yesterday. How exciting to know they arrived in time. Now, next Spring and for years to come, those irises will bloom, and multiply and remind her of the love I have for her. Love does the unexpected.
I know she didn't expect them.
Love sees Spring in the dead of Winter. Love remembers good things another does. So many things this friend has done for me. She's often sent me little gifts in the mail and kept on giving when I, in my neglect, procrastinated and did not send what the Lord had laid on my heart to send her. But I remember all those things she's done for me, even though I fail to follow through on my intentions. Love keeps count of all the kindness and generosity it receives.
Sometimes folks say things they wish they had kept to themselves. Sometimes they leave imprints in another's heart with impressions they wish they could erase, or recall. Sometimes those impressions must be dug up, unearthed, and replaced with new soil, new seeds of love. And when a person is blessed with love, they know love forgets when it is wronged. Love is conscious of another's desires and delights in meeting those desires and sacrifices its own.
Last October my grandsons came over to clean up our back yard and haul stuff to the dump. They grabbed old buckets, a broken wheelbarrow, and wicker baskets that had long over-stayed their welcome. My overly eager grandsons just wanted to get the job done. They latched onto the lattice pictured in this photo. I was sick with the flu-bug, and didn't feel like directing the dismantling of my country-dressed yard. They saw no purpose for various metal posts sticking in the ground that once supported my heavy sunflowers and 8-foot foxglove plants. Every item they saw was junk. Only I had personal attachments to various trellis-work and wrought iron I strategically placed in my flowerbeds. I rescued my bedframes, then gave up. I was too weak and feverish to stand guard over all the items I wanted to keep. It didn't matter. I knew my husband would rather it "be-gone", anyway.
Three days later I made my way out to the yard to survey the uprooted pieces that survived Fall clean-up. There sat my lattice. I wanted to lean it up against my litte metal shed and let vines grow over it this summer so it will make a tent of shade for my granddaughters to use as a play house retreat. When I snapped the picture in the snow, that lattice reminded me once again of the love imprinted upon my husband's heart for me and my quirks. He knew my desires; he sacrificed his own desire to have a pristine yard, free of mowing encumberments, and my decorating madness. Why? To delight me. And he succeeded. Love comes in many forms, is spoken in many languages. We just need to know how to decipher the signs, and interpret the language. When we look for the best in others, we will find imprints of love no matter the season. selahV
