Leota's Garden (72 page)

You said to me the other night that I never loved you. Oh, you are so wrong, my dear. You are the daughter I prayed for, Eleanor. I loved you from the moment I knew I was expecting you. I loved you even more when I held you in my arms. I named you after a great lady, a woman of great character, the woman I know God intends you to be. Trust Him and He will mold you into His vessel. And remember . . . I never stopped loving you, Eleanor, even during all the years you believed otherwise. You are the daughter of my heart. Even when we are apart, I hold you close. And wherever I am at this moment as you’re reading this letter, be reassured, my beloved,

I love you still.

Mama

Nora wept. She read the letter again through her tears and then held it against her chest, finally reading it again.

“Annie told me I’d find you in here,” Fred said from behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded her muscles gently. “She said your mother wanted you to have the sewing machine. Do you want it?”

“I do.” More than anything. More than all the stocks, for they only represented cold cash. She had felt disinherited when the will was read. And now, she felt like the prodigal who was welcomed home by a rejoicing parent. She folded her mother’s letter carefully and tucked it back into the envelope, then put it in her jacket pocket and kept her hand over it. She had what mattered. She had what really counted. Love.

“George brought the van,” Fred said. “Maybe I can talk him into moving the sewing machine for us this evening. They could spend the night.”

“They never have before.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“We’ve plenty of room.”

“The children could ride over in the car with us.”

“That would be nice.”

Fred turned her around and lifted her chin. He studied her. “Are you all right?”

“Not yet, but . . . I know now my mother loved me.”
Thank You, Lord, oh, thank You.

He leaned down and kissed her. “I love you, too, Nora. I have from the moment I met you. And I always will.”

Oh, dear Jesus, I’m so undeserving, and so very, very thankful.
She went into her husband’s arms and rested in his embrace a long moment. “Will you do me a favor, Fred?”

“Now what?” he said in a teasing tone.

She drew back slightly and looked up at him. “Don’t call me Nora anymore.” She smiled. “Call me Eleanor.”

Annie finished drying the last of Grandma’s Fiesta dishes and put them away in the kitchen cabinets. The washing machine was going with the tablecloths and napkins and several dish towels. The leftovers were put away. She had sent German potato salad home with Arba, wedges of apple strudel with Juanita, and German potato sausage with Lin Sansan.

Smiling, Annie closed the cabinets.
Well, Lord, we had an international day, didn’t we? Like a meeting of the United Nations in our backyard!

It had been a wonderful day. Everyone she had invited had come to the party in Grandma Leota’s garden. Juanita had even managed to get her husband, Jorge, to participate. He was a quiet man and rather wary among the throng of people milling around the garden, but he had gradually warmed up when his wife had introduced him to Lin Sansan and her husband, Quyen Tan Ng. It was the first time the men had met and spoken. Amazing, since they had been neighbors for three years!

Halfway through the afternoon, Annie had decided to organize a block party. Summer wasn’t that far away, and it would be a perfect time. When she mentioned the idea to Arba, her friendly neighbor said she was all for it and willing to help. So was Juanita. They spread the news to the other neighbors.

Lord, I want to know everyone’s name by the end of summer. Men, women, and children! But it’s going to take dynamite to get some of them out of their houses. People are so afraid. Father, I want this neighborhood to be like neighborhoods used to be, when everyone knew one another and people talked over their back fences.

Grandma Leota had told her what the neighborhood had been like fifty years ago. She knew it could be that way again. It was already starting. Opening the garden to the children had brought the mothers over to visit. Arba, Juanita, and Lin Sansan often sat on her patio now, talking, even when Annie was working, which was often since Arba had introduced her to Miranda Wentworth, an interior decorator. Ever since Miranda had come to see her painted trims and borders, Annie had more offers than she could fulfill. And the gallery wanted another painting. The proprietor had come over and made an offer for Grandma Leota’s portrait, but Annie declined. She was thinking about painting Arba, Juanita, and Lin Sansan as they sipped tea together in the garden. They were wonderful to watch and would be even more wonderful to paint. They were all so different. Arba in her bright colors, Juanita in her old-fashioned fifties-style dresses, Lin Sansan in her black pants and white shirts with mandarin collars . . . different, but perfectly matched.

Everyone loved the garden. And everyone brought something to it. Annie was always receiving potted plants, seeds, or doodads to tuck into leafy corners. Sam had brought a ceramic angel today—a silly, chubby, bewinged child that didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to real angels written about in the Bible.

Grandma Leota had planned and laid out the garden. All those years she had toiled and planted, always hoping and praying this little piece of earth would become a sanctuary for those she loved. Grandma Leota had dreamed her dreams and prayed her prayers while kneeling on the earth and planting bulbs. She had believed it would all happen someday. She never gave up hope.

How Grandma would have relished this Easter Day. Annie wished she had been sitting among her flowers, seeing how everyone responded to the beauty of her garden. Sam, Susan, Corban, Arba, and the neighbor children had all shared the workload of bringing it back. Annie wanted people to feel at home in here. A garden wasn’t meant to belong to one person. A garden was for sharing, for exercise, for joy, for prayer. A garden was an open-air cathedral to the glory of God, a living monument to the birth, life, death, and resurrection of the Lord. Every season
was a trumpet sounding, every sunrise and sunset a daily reminder of God’s glory. Here, in this small corner of a small neighborhood, Annie hoped people would come to understand a little better the way things were meant to be.

Her mother was going to be all right after all. Uncle George and Fred had carried the old sewing machine out to the van. Though Uncle George had agreed to move it, he had resisted spending the night in Blackhawk. He said he had to be at work in the morning. Poor Uncle George, debt-free, forever debt-ridden. Would he ever lay his burdens down? Annie knew Grandma Leota had written a letter to him as well.

With everything put away in the kitchen, Annie went into the living room and picked up
Kidnapped
by Robert Louis Stevenson. She ran her hand over the worn cover. Grandma Leota had told her how much Uncle George had loved to read as a boy. This had been his favorite book. Annie had put it on the side table, hoping Uncle George would pick it up and leaf through it—and find the letter tucked inside. He hadn’t touched it. He had spent most of the afternoon sitting alone and watching television. She had not seen him even glance through the albums she had compiled and left open on the dining room table. Her mother had taken one of the old scrapbooks with her.

The time just hadn’t been right for Uncle George. Perhaps the next time he came, he would be ready to look around, to think back, to wonder. Perhaps he would be ready then to ask the painful questions and receive the redemptive answers.
Lord, please soften him.
Annie opened the drawer in the side table beside Grandma Leota’s recliner, placed the book in it, and closed it again. God would tell her the right time to take it out. In the meantime, she would keep praying. Grandma Leota had taught her that. Never give up. Never despair. No matter what we feel or think, keep praying. Choose hope!

The scent of lilacs and narcissus filled the living room. Annie looked at Grandma Leota’s portrait. Her heart had been in her throat as her mother paused to look at it before leaving. “You do have a gift, Annie. Don’t let anyone, including me, tell you otherwise.” Then her mother had looked at the marble-and-brass urn that had contained Grandma Leota’s ashes and was now filled with flowers. “Your grandmother loved lilacs.” Her mother had touched some of the blossoms.

“Yes, she did. She loved daffodils too.”

Eleanor had turned and looked at Annie. She’d smiled, her eyes filling with tears. “And roses.”

Annie had smiled back. Her mother knew. “Those, too.”

Oh, it was a wonderful day, Grandma Leota. And you were with us every moment of it, close to our hearts. You are alive and well and with our Lord.

Everything had been picked up in the living room. The door was locked. Annie went back into the kitchen and through to the back porch. She went outside into the cool evening air. Crickets were chirping and several frogs croaked. They were attracted to one corner of the garden, where she’d made a fountain. She had used half of a wine barrel and a small pump she’d bought from a hardware store on East Fourteenth. She’d tucked in submersible, marginal, and surface water plants. She loved the sound of running water. It was like living water, and the frogs would keep the garden free of bugs.

She walked the path to the victory garden. The moon was out, reflecting light off the white alyssum, the gardenias, the pale blossoms on the fruit trees, the star jasmine and narcissus. The flowers themselves gave light. The darkness was broken by starlight, moonlight, and white flowers, and the air was filled with their sweet fragrance.

Annie remembered the first day she had looked out Grandma Leota’s kitchen window to the garden. It had been unkempt, weed-choked, barren in patches. . . . The trees and bushes had been in dire need of pruning. Grandma had told her what it used to be like, and Annie had imagined it and longed to see it that way again. Under Grandma’s guidance, the work had begun. The soil had been turned, softened, mulched, planted. The trees and bushes had been pruned and cut back. It had been hard work but well worth the aching muscles, broken fingernails, scratches, bruises, and blisters.

Along the way, surprises had cropped up. Bulbs Grandma had planted and forgotten years ago had appeared. Perennials long gone had left their seeds and bloomed again. New life had sprung up everywhere as though God had blessed this little patch of earth.

All day Annie had watched family members, friends, and neighbors wander around the garden, and she kept thinking how they were all like flowers. Some were poppies, blooming bold and brief. Others were like ornamental vines, passionflowers, or trumpets. Still others were shy
violets and wallflowers. And all together, what a beautiful world they made. Everyone different, everyone amazing to behold.

Annie was so thankful for having had even a little time with Grandma Leota. She had never really thought about a garden’s significance until she came to know her grandmother. Grandma Leota had told her once that everything important had happened in a garden. . . .

“God created the garden for man and placed him in it. Adam and Eve fell into sin in a garden. Jesus taught in a garden. Our Lord prayed in a garden. He was betrayed in a garden. And He arose in a garden. And someday—”
her grandmother’s eyes had shone—
“we will all be reunited in the garden.”

Not all, perhaps.

Annie frowned. Corban had waited all day and all evening so he could be alone with her. She knew he was in love with her, and she had tried to dissuade him from saying anything that might later embarrass him. Yet he was persistent, determined. Far more than Sam had been. But then Sam was a Christian. He had been able to understand and accept. If only Corban would come to that saving faith and have the direction, purpose, and joy he yearned to have. Maybe then, life wouldn’t be so difficult for him, so pointless and frustrating.

“I’m in love with you, Annie,” he had said.

“I can’t love you the way you want, Corban.” What else could she say but the truth, even when it hurt him? She could see his frustration and feel his longing, but she was content. She would keep trying to turn his attention to the Lord. That’s all she could do. Even when he tried to talk her out of living alone, or living in the inner city, or living for others rather than herself, she would pray for his salvation. “I’m where I’m supposed to be, Corban. I’m where I want to be. What more could I possibly want than to live in the garden?” Maybe in time he would understand what she meant.

Annie stood on the lawn, inhaling the fragrant evening air and gazing up at the night sky. It was long past midnight, the darkest time—and yet the stars shone brighter now.

This was Your day, Lord. Oh, I know every day is Your day, but this one was extra special, and I thank You for it. You are amazing. Oh, Father, I thought there was no chance of restoration and reconciliation when Grandma Leota passed on. I had so hoped we would have her awhile longer and Mother would have time to make amends. For whatever reason, it wasn’t to be. Oh, Lord, I confess I almost lost hope when Grandma died. I thought whatever plan You’d made for my poor, broken family had somehow been destroyed by Satan. And then You reminded me of the Garden and the serpent and Your promise of a deliverer. And Jesus came. I remembered Noah and his wayward sons and how You told them to spread over the earth and multiply, and, instead, his descendants gathered together and built the Tower of Babel in rebellion against You. You went right ahead and fulfilled Your plan when You confounded their language and scattered them over the face of the earth. Man strives to do things his own way, and yet, it is always Your will that prevails.