Bedtime
When I was very small I remember several things about
bedtime. I shared a bedroom with my
older brother Tom who would have been a teenager back then. The bedroom in the old house that we were renting
at the time was small, and there was one small window. I remember looking at the long summer evening
that snuck in around the edges of the pulled-closed window curtain and thinking
that I would much rather be outside playing with my toy truck. Maybe such times and places are where the seeds
of rebellion are sown, because even at that young age I rather instinctively
knew that it wasn’t fair to put a boy to bed when there was still daylight to
play in. Wisely, or obediently, I didn’t
water those seeds. I learned early on
that with my parents, fairness didn’t seem to be a big part of the rule-making process
– at least from my perspective.
I also remember groggy half-awakenings when my brother
Tom came into the room sometime later.
He never turned on the light; instead, he would leave the door open just
a crack so that the hallway light could provide all the light he needed to get
ready for bed himself. When he was ready
he always came over, adjusted my covers and kissed my forehead. Even 60 plus years later I recall how peaceful
that made me feel.
When my own children were young, bedtime was a
favorite time for me. I loved reading
stories, or even making up stories, and dinosaur rides or carrying squirmy
sacks of garbanzo beans over my shoulder, and up the stairs. I could be a father when necessary, maybe
more than necessary sometimes, but there was something special about bedtime because
that was dad time.
This morning it was bedtime for the garden. I usually have the beds all cleaned up and
turned over long before now. I think it’s
already almost a month since I picked the last tomato. But we have been in drought since July and I
was waiting for some rain to soften up the soil and make the work easier. Finally, we have had a series of heavy rains
over the last week or so.
I stepped back after finishing the first bed to take it in. It occurred to me that while this was the
same work I do in the spring, that there is an entirely different mood between
getting a garden ready for winter compared to preparing to plant in the
spring. The garden beds look the same
with the soil loose and damp and rich.
But the garden now speaks of the end of the season, and the long sleep
soon to come. Even the sky looks the same
– bright and blue with puffs of white clouds marching quickly past. But today they ride in from the northwest and
despite the sunshine, the wind brings a chill that makes me button the top
button on my coat. In the spring the
clouds will ride in from the western prairies and the sun’s warmth will make me
pull my coat off and set it out of the way.
Still, putting the garden to bed is good work. It is a necessary chore completed. There is a strong sense that things are as
they should be. It’s a bit like that
kiss on the forehead that I used to get from my brother Tom. Even 60 plus years later I recall how
peaceful that made me feel.
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
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