We stood on the riverbank watching steam rise from the water. The sun was warming the cool autumn air, but the spring fed river flowed cold in defiance. The waning September morn was filled with chirping water as it flicked over mossy rocks. Clear as glass, the Meramec reflected the trees on the bank. Leaves had begun to gather around the edges, but minnows still gathered there and zipped around after gnats. We watched them scatter until we saw the chestnut bobbing around.
My friend and I scrambled in excitement. She fished it out of the water, and we stared at it with glee. We marveled over the smooth skin as we passed it back and forth. Then, we looked around for more. Our peaceful morning had transitioned from quiet admiration to scavenger hunt.
My son was splashing around in the water and began to find chestnuts floating near logs and in quiet coves. We pleaded with him to find us more. Whereas a few minutes before I was begging him not to go into the water, now I urged him on, “It’s not that deep. Do you see any on the other bank?” It’s funny how wonder inspires us to take risks.
What is that prickly fruit?
I spotted a single pricky pear shaped fruit hanging low from the bow of a spindly branch. There was water beneath it but I decided to risk wet feet in pursuit. I leverage my weight on a rock, balancing carefully over the stream as I pulled the branch closer. I found myself bending the whole tree in my direction so I could pick the last remaining pod.
My friend and I chattered like children as she pulled the flesh apart to reveal two perfect chestnuts. We stood there rubbing the cache in our fingers like prospectors with freshly procured gold. She was telling me how to roast them and I was imagining how they would taste.
Why did we find so much joy in the moment? Ater all, it was just a nut. Some would say it was a boring old useless thing. But to us, it was miracle!
I can’t speak for my friend, but I suddenly felt an electric current in my veins. Time slipped away. So did worries and fears. I was just a girl on a riverbank with my friend and a handful of treasure. Life is full of miracles if one is willing to search for them.
When I was a younger person, I had a feeling I was missing something. I looked at people and saw hairstyles and clothes. I saw “a look” and I thought, “I need that.” I thought if I held my head a certain way or wore a certain type of shoe, I would fit in. I was constantly searching–always trying to conform. I spent hours with curling irons and mouse. I stuffed myself into tight jeans that cut painfully into my waist. I tucked and pulled and prodded and steamed myself into all manner of shapes, but the “miracle” eluded me. I thought if I was a certain way, people would like me–maybe even love me. I was surrounded by people, but I was alone. In my mind, I would never be right even though I was always striving. I was an anomaly, an aberration. What I really needed was a miracle.
Somewhere along the line I stopped looking for miracles. Not that I accepted who I was. It’s just that the pain of searching and never finding was very painful. I supposed I built callouses around my heart to protect myself. And then there was always the “er” at the end of all my thoughts. “If only I was thinner. Prettier. Richer.”
I tried to adapt. I stretched my finances and purchased the “perfect” car. It was a silver Honda CRV and it was marvelous. I loved every single thing about that car–except the payment. I felt fantastic when I was driving it. I was zippy. I was trendy. I was hip. But the debt gnawed at me like the squirrel in my son’s window chewing on a bone. There was a noise inside my head saying I shouldn’t have bought it, but I told it to shut up and go away. It never did. So, when the man pulled in front of me and the car was totaled, I had it towed to my house. I sat in the car in the driveway and cried. Everything was ruined. All I had left was a piece of rubble to be hauled to the junkyard and a mountain of debt (which I had secured to my home in the form of a HELOC.) I wish I could say that was the worst financial decision of my life but there were others. I eventually gave the home back to the bank to escape the debt. I wish I would have learned my lesson sooner: miracles can’t be purchased.
I learned that miracles couldn’t be found in automobiles or fashion, but I found they could be found somewhere unexpected. Friendship. I’m not talking about a casual acquaintance, the kind of person who expects something from you and never gives anything back. I’m not talking about that co-worker who is friendly but bolts at the first sign of trouble. And I’m not talking about that person you’ve known since grade school who is full of criticism and sarcasm other “isms” that can’t be listed here. A REAL friend is not unlike the Velveteen Rabbit. Sometimes the fur has worn off. Sometimes they are lumpy and not especially aesthetically pleasing. But they stick closer than a brother. They don’t walk away when life is hard. Their love is like an old tree growing out of the cliff; it never lets go. Real friends are a miracle, and they point to the friend above all others.
Jesus.
Religion has certainly tried to homogenize Him–and for that matter–I know Christians who virtue signal with His name like He’s the newest contouring trend for tween girls. But in my life, He has been the miracle that unlocked all the others. When I realized that with Jesus, I didn’t have to have the “cool clothes” or the “snazzy car” or the “perfect house”, I found an end to my restless wandering. I call it restless because no matter what I bought or wore, there was no soul-satisfying joy in my heart. Jesus took the guilt, the shame, the lonesome “otherness” that defined my life and adopted me into His perfect family. This kind of love has no price tag or expectation of perfection. It is “come as you are” and find love.
Sprouting Buckeye seed
My friend and I later discovered the nuts we found were horse chestnuts and therefore inedible. Buckeyes, (as they are commonly called) are considered good luck. But I also like to call them little miracles. Why? Because they grow through no strength of their own. They survive by falling, breaking open, and dying in the soil–only to sprout and start the cycle anew. They aren’t edible like apples or colorful like pumpkins, but they ripen in the fall, not long before winter crushes us with cold. But mostly importantly, they remind me that every seed is filled with a promise that when planted in a cold and dark place, there is hope that new life will emerge. Life sprouting out of death is the greatest miracle there is and it is all around us. (Just ask Old Mighty Mr. Oak Tree) Because every seed that falls points to the life, death and resurrection of Jesus–the most beautiful miracle of all!
💕 this was lovely.