A Moment I Never Want to Forget

It's no secret that I get my love of gardening and appreciation of Creation's beauty from my father. Our Sunday summertime walk in the garden before church is one of my favorite childhood memories. While Mom put the finishing touches on the roast that would become our dinner, or maybe snuck into the bathroom to freshen her lipstick, Dad and I often found ourselves in the garden. My little hand in his big one, my small frame in the shadow of his 6 and-a-half feet, we'd stroll. I learned about fringey dianthus, or "pinks," as we called them, and "Sweet Williams," the velvety blossoms which always made me think of my beloved Uncle Bill, and my dad's best friend, who died way too early. We'd check out the progress of the Golden Delicious apples that grew on our tree. We'd hear the breeze through the tall poplars at the back of the yard and together we'd take in the honeyed scent of the white allysum that bordered the garden beds below.

Dad and Mom moved into a fourth floor apartment at the Holland Home last summer, and while Dad has not once complained, I can imagine the loss of his garden must hit him now and again with fresh grief, especially with the coming of Spring. I don't know if it was grief transformed that prompted his gift to us, but yesterday morning, having picked up a bowl of pansies for his own 4th floor patio, he stopped to drop by a flat of purple pansies.

I met Mom and Dad outside on our brick patio where we stood six feet apart, shivering a bit. Mom inquired about each of the kids. Dementia hasn't robbed her yet of such beautiful concern and curiosity. Dad wanted to know about the Lenten Rose just coming into bloom. I made a mental note to bring him a posy when they open.

In the cold air we toed the line of our separation, which felt especially awkward when it came time to say goodbye. Without the ritual hugs and kisses we'd given so little attention to before, our hearts now felt frozen and mute.

But Dad gave us a new ritual. He put his hand to his heart. Explaining, he said, "Your mother the other day asked me what I was doing. I said, 'This means, My heart throbs for you.'"

My dad's extravagant love hasn't often found its most fluent expression through words. While never withholding, his verbal emotional expression was often measured, so what a delight it was to his language-loving daughter to hear his love expressed so viscerally: My heart throbs for you.

New spaces—often awkward—invite new rituals and new language. I'm celebrating the surprising arrival of this one. I wonder what new ones are springing for you.

Soul friends—including you, Dad—I've never said it quite said it this way before, but my heart throbs for you.