It was more than I
could handle in the middle of a life unraveled. I walked around the big empty
house and drank too much; felt sorry for myself, went on regrettable dates with
people completely unsuited to me, turned the music up loud when the pain got
too unbearable.
I’d go down the front steps and look at the containers that
should have been overflowing with flowers. The dried up husks of the
snapdragons seemed infinitely better than an artificially cheery bouquet. I
busied myself in my work and ignored the yard. Inside the house, I sanded the
floors, choking on great quantities of poison-laden dust. I painted over the
bright yellow walls with soft earth tones that felt somehow more honest, more
real. And every day, the snapdragons seemed to wither a little more.
Spring collapsed into summer and summer into fall. The trees
began to turn and the air grew cooler. The afternoon shadows were darker than I
remembered and the nights colder than the temperature promised. And each day
through the winter those snapdragons just sat. Weeds had sprouted in the
containers, green against the shriveled stalks of broken promises. I let them
grow.
Nature was unmoved by my self-pity. The winter rains came
and what I couldn’t do, or wouldn’t do, it did without my help. One cold winter
day, I noted the snapdragons were green.
By then, I had hardly even noticed that I had
learned to breathe again on my own. The soundtrack had changed too—the dark and
furious chords of Wagner and Pearl Jam had faded into Tony Bennett and the
Beatles.
Life wasn’t merely death delayed after all. My dog’s muzzle
was still soft and warm and her yellow lupine eyes still gazed at me with love.
A new relationship put the old into perspective. Winter gave way to spring. A year-long Lent became Easter.
The snapdragons bloomed. And I had nothing to do with
it. It was grace, pure and simple. It was resurrection. It was music and dance. It was flowers and springtime and hope.
Alleluia!