Whenever I sit at my desk writing, I savor the sight of hummingbirds zooming over to the window feeder, plus squirrels eyeing me curiously from the crook of a tree. On the windowsill, nearly blocking my view — but in a lovely way — a purple orchid shows off its fancy finery.
At supper, I can count on entertainment provided by robins splashing in the birdbath, while nearby a chipmunk waits for me to dole out peanuts.
It is now nearly eight weeks since my husband died, and I still cry every day — but in the midst of grieving I have discovered some solace in nature.
I always feel close to God on our back deck, where my husband — a former beekeeper — and I loved watching golden ribbons of honey bees flashing from hive to sky. Weekend nights, we lit lanterns as the sun dwindled and dusk descended, and lightning bugs winked mysteriously nearby.
In the Old Testament, Job advised, “Ask the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the birds of the air, and they shall tell thee.” For me, there’s comfort in seeking God’s fingerprints in nature — and realizing “the hand of the Lord hath made all these things.”
On our vacations, we nearly always headed to the beach, where sandpipers skittered on the shore and crabs peered at us from the dunes. Last time we were there — a few days before his death — we saw newly hatched turtles dashing into the surf and swimming for the first time. And, when there was a particularly spectacular over-the-top sunset, one of us would exclaim, “That must be what heaven looks like!”
Now, when I walk alone in the neighborhood, I’m startled by an abundance of intricately painted butterflies — monarchs and painted ladies — sipping nectar from clusters of gaudy flowers. I fall asleep to the serenade of crickets — often awakening at midnight to ponder the unanswerable query of a barred owl: “Who cooks for you?”
My husband, I am sure, exists somewhere outside of space and time, quite beyond my reach, which means no more holding hands, sweet goodnight kisses and bear hugs as needed. No more meals together on the deck, no more late-night scoops of ice cream — pistachio was our favorite — no more jokes about our incredibly fuzzy teddy-bear hamster.
Still, whenever I imagine heaven, I picture the thickets of greenery in our yard, the white stretch of a Florida beach, the startling beauty of orchids — and plenty of rabbits, chipmunks, turtles, honey bees — plus the occasional hamster, of course.
Surely, heaven would boast glorious gardens, the lushest paths, the sweetest sounds of creatures, large and small, raising their voices to the creator— and underscoring the psalmist’s words, “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.”
I can just envision my sweetheart there, strolling along with a sketchpad, looking for some particularly stirring scene to draw — and, from time to time, checking his watch to see when I’ll show up behind him.
About the Author
