Jack-knives and Poplar Bluffs and M-L-L
As a young girl, adventure was out there! Out on the farm, there was beauty and charm, there were cow paths and wagon trails, trees and meadows to explore on foot, in the back of a pick up truck or riding the wind on the little tractor bouncing down the trails.
Always something to keep us busy at, our excursions through the bush usually had a purpose - go find the cows, bring the cows home, check the fences, check the crops, look for berries, pick the berries. And, on occasion, just go exploring.
A favourite destination was travelling the half mile or so through the bush to the abandoned yard site where my grandparents used to live - the location where my Dad grew up. I have no memories of anyone living there but there was plenty of evidence in the house that it had been a well loved home. The most exquisite black iron wood stove remained in the kitchen. A taxidermy deer head hung on the living room wall. There were pieces of an old crib lying around, possibly even used by some of us grandchildren. We'd walk through the yard and dad would point out where the garden had been, where the barn had been. He'd show us where the road that led to town was and we'd strain to imagine that the road was more traveled by horses than it was by cars. We'd look through the small shed that leaned to the east, ever on the lookout for treasures that we never actually found. We didn't need treasures. The land was holy - the home of my ancestors. The home of my father.
It was in a bluff of poplar trees that bordered the yard site that I clearly remember reaching into my little girl pocket of my little girl pants and pulling out the jack knife that I had bought from the Army and Navy catalogue.
I opened the blade and ever so carefully sliced into the green fleshy skin of a poplar tree, leaving, for forever, a sign that I had been there.
Always something to keep us busy at, our excursions through the bush usually had a purpose - go find the cows, bring the cows home, check the fences, check the crops, look for berries, pick the berries. And, on occasion, just go exploring.
A favourite destination was travelling the half mile or so through the bush to the abandoned yard site where my grandparents used to live - the location where my Dad grew up. I have no memories of anyone living there but there was plenty of evidence in the house that it had been a well loved home. The most exquisite black iron wood stove remained in the kitchen. A taxidermy deer head hung on the living room wall. There were pieces of an old crib lying around, possibly even used by some of us grandchildren. We'd walk through the yard and dad would point out where the garden had been, where the barn had been. He'd show us where the road that led to town was and we'd strain to imagine that the road was more traveled by horses than it was by cars. We'd look through the small shed that leaned to the east, ever on the lookout for treasures that we never actually found. We didn't need treasures. The land was holy - the home of my ancestors. The home of my father.
It was in a bluff of poplar trees that bordered the yard site that I clearly remember reaching into my little girl pocket of my little girl pants and pulling out the jack knife that I had bought from the Army and Navy catalogue.
I opened the blade and ever so carefully sliced into the green fleshy skin of a poplar tree, leaving, for forever, a sign that I had been there.
M-L-L
(Maureen Lois Letkeman)
I didn't date it. I didn't add anything else. There was no heart or "other" initials added to the carving.
Just mine.
I was here.
See my mark.
Don't forget.
Don't forget me.
I can still smell the green bark that sliced off under the cut of my knife. While in my mind's eye I would create a picturesque etching of the most important initials I could boast of at the time, in reality, the marks were crude and cumbersome and maybe, to some, not even that distinguishable.
But those were my marks to make and so I made them purposefully that day.
Time went by and we'd return many times to Grandpa's farm yard and I'd search through the poplar bluff and time and time again, I'd find the crudely carved initials.
See. I was here. Don't forget. All you have to do is see the carving and you'll remember me.
We all want to be remembered, thought of, not forgotten. If we're being really honest, we'd like to be remembered for something spectacular - for being memorable - for standing out from the rest of the crowd because we're so <fill in the blank> AMAZING! On those days when we're at the top of our game and things are going good, wanting to be remembered for being spectacular just kinda flows out of our self promoting psyche.
And on those days when we're NOT at the top of our game and we're struggling through problems and sorrows and hurts and unsolicited pain.....
We also don't want to be forgotten.
It's on those days, particularly, that it helps to know we're on someone's mind. It helps to know that we're not forgotten. If you've ever had a day where the weight of life at that moment is so great that you think you'll drown and you get a call from a friend who says those little words "you're on my mind today" and all of a sudden the weight of your load lessens because someone remembered you - you KNOW how deep it is to be remembered. Grief shared is grief diminished - pain, disappointment, hurt, failure shared is diminished when shared.
There's a verse found in Isaiah 49:14-16 - "Yet they say - 'my Lord deserted us; He has forgotten us.' Never! Can a mother forget her little child and not have love for her own son? Yet even if that should be, I will not forget you. See I have tattooed your name upon my palm."
Tattooed. Engraved. Carved. Inscribed.
That's my God-Father speaking.
He's saying that
He can't even open His hands without thinking about me.
He opens His hands and remembers me. One little glance at His hands and I'm on His mind.
Like revisiting that poplar bluff, I can go back in my memory and reflect on times when I felt that God had forgotten me and I remember this treasure of a verse that reminds me once more that I am tattooed on my Father's hands, treasured in His arms, always on His mind.
God ♡ M.D.
I am not forgotten!
I am not forgotten!
I am not forgotten - GOD KNOWS MY NAME!
Comments
Post a Comment