Looking for what was Lost

I was a child who experienced deep grief. I didn’t know that’s what it was. Grief looked like anger, frustration and illness. It was communicated by my parents as, “I’m tired. Go away. Play outside.” I knew my grandmother had been killed in a car accident, but I don’t remember anyone crying. I remember my mother making meals, taking us to the doctor and cleaning the house. She seemed angry a lot. I thought it was my fault and internalized that grief as intense fear and insecurity. I am an adult now and I can appreciate the stress she was under and how hard she worked to hold everything together. I am grateful for her care and her sacrifices. But when I was a little girl, I didn’t understand what was happening and as a result suffered deep and painful emotional wounds.

We spent a lot of time at my Grandpa Swan’s log house. My mother took care of the house and my young aunt and uncle. My father worked on the house itself, repairing the defects of a house not built properly. They say the cold wind blew straight through the cracks in the walls until he fixed them. My dad was Mr. Fixit. I loved my dad. But he never seemed available to spend time with me. He was either working at the airport (to pay our bills) or working on that old log house. I was lonely and sad. I was always looking for something, though I didn’t really know what.

Box turtle (one should never remove a turtle from his native space)

I spent hours wandering the woods on those 40 acres. I hunted for frogs and turtles and salamanders. I wasn’t afraid of snakes or walking sticks. I knew every nook and cranny of that property. The delight of my life was pulling up in our old yellow station wagon. I would make a beeline for the pond – running down the well-worn path on the hill as fast as I could. I would rush to pull up an old piece of metal siding to see if there was a snake or bullfrog underneath. In the summer I wandered through the woods and scooped up peepers–little baby toads. I remember there were hundreds, if not thousands of them. They were wonderful. I was alone, but nature filled my senses.

I remember the evening I stood in the field out in front of the house and looked up at the sky. The clouds were white and fluffy, and the sun was setting behind them in a glorious display of sparkling gold. I knew there was a God who created that beautiful scene, and I loved Him. More importantly, I felt loved by Him in that moment. I felt as if He was looking down on me and telling me that I wasn’t alone.

This is how I characterize my childhood; intense grief swallowed up in illuminating love.

My Grandpa Swan sold the 40 acres and log house the summer after I finished sixth grade. I was devastated. I loved the land, the garden, the outbuildings, and the old pond. And when I say I loved it, I mean that I still dream about that place 37 years later, and I probably always will. It was my second home, and the land was like a second skin.

I suppose I could call it the land that I lost. I was a child and I didn’t understand why my grandpa had to move to California and sell that wonderful place. My aunt Leslie and I loved it so much we went back to visit years later. The owners weren’t home and so we wandered down to the old pond–which looked much smaller. It’s strange how we can grieve a place as much as we grieve a person. In my dreams I am on the front porch or running through the fields or down to the pond. It is as much a part of me today as my current home.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to lose a place that I love. It feels silly to miss a place. After all, it’s the people we love who lived there that really matter. When they are gone, does the place even have any relevance? But my heart would argue the opposite is true. The love of the people is imprinted on my heart as much as the love of the land. My Grandpa Swan’s Garden was so lush. I remember picking sunflower heads and roasting sunflower seeds. I remember the rhubarb plants, the strawberries, the peach tree. The echoes of love still resound in my heart like a symphony. Each memory is a note. So, when I sit down to remember, there is a song thrumming through my soul that is as timeless as the soil itself.

Chopping wood for winter

I am an adult who remembers the wonder of exploring the land. The love of land has never left me. My husband and I purchased 5.5 acres in a small town in Southern Missouri about 13 years ago. We spent many summers there with only a cooler and a couple tents until we were able to get a small loan and build a little cabin. We have cut down trees, hauled wood and even had a well dug (Oh running water! Luxury of luxuries!). We only work on the cabin as we have money so there is much yet to be completed. But my favorite amenity will always be the toilet and the shower. I spent too many days and nights without either.

The past few visits I have done a lot of thinking about what will happen to our little slice of heaven when I’m gone. It was just a plot of woods when we bought it, but we have made it into a home. I have a bird feeder in the front yard and last Fall I planted iris bulbs. I have a little plot of oregano and this Spring I intend to try a few vegetables. I have made many friends of the people who live nearby, and my mind always wanders there when I’m in the city. I wonder if anyone will ever love the land as I have. Will they get as excited as I do when I hunt for mushrooms?

Chanterelles in my woods

The land taught me about chanterelles, chicken of the woods and elkhorns. Will the people who come after me marvel over wild blueberries and wander through blackberry bushes gobbling each berry until their fingers and lips are bright red? Will they rush down into the woods when it starts to rain to watch the little dry creek turn from a gravel ditch into a cornucopia of waterfalls? Or will they use the firepit we lovingly built out of stones from the nearby hills? It was our first architectural marvel, and we were so proud to park our chairs near it and roast hotdogs and marshmallows as if we were kings and queens.

In writing this I realize I’m no longer looking for what I lost in those 40 acres my grandpa sold. I retain my memories and can stroll there any time I like. More importantly, the people I love live there even though they no longer live on earth. My Aunt Melinda and my Aunt Nina are young and beautiful there. My Grandpa Swan is always making jokes and funny faces and the strange silly sounds only he could make. My Cousin Pleasy was there, sitting on the front porch, all smiles and sweetness. And my Uncle Daniel had space for me on the back of his dirt bike and time to ride me around on the trails in the woods. I even remember my Grandma Swan in what must be one of my earliest memories. I was sitting on her lap and I was loved. Love echoes in my memories and no one can snatch them away.

I spend a lot of time walking around the woods on my little plot of land. I know the hole where the groundhog lives, how to avoid the yellow jacket nest in the ground, and where the deer leave their droppings. The mosses and ferns grow near the dry creek beds, and I find joy and wonder in each little bloom of the wildflowers that sprout in the Spring. Most recently I have made new friends in the nuthatches, chickadees and titmice that visit my feeder. I have found so many beautiful creatures there and I continue to awe over how the land always seems to have more to give.

Life will always have seasons of deep grief and loss. One day it feels as if the pain from what we have lost will consume us and joy will never sprout anew. Our tears are like rain washing away everything we loved. But feelings are more transient than the leaves on my trees. They sprout, then grow, and then shrivel, die and fall to the ground. Then the cycle begins again.

Listen. Do you hear it? Spring is so near I can almost smell it. The robins have arrived. They are looking for worms and berries and they are beginning to build their nests. This is the rhythm of nature, the rhythm of life.

I still feel my Father in Heaven looking down on me with love. Sometimes He shines through the clouds in a glorious sunset as He did when I was a child. But most often, He speaks through his Word to remind me that He is sovereign over all creation. More importantly, with Him nothing is ever lost. In Him I find the love that fills my heart with joy and gladness even on the gloomiest of winter days.