Heart Picture

There are moments when your breath is taken away, and some synapse connects to a part of your brain where memories are stored. Details can be recalled with accuracy, senses are awakened, and smells, colors, and even tastes can be conjured up in the future.

One fall day a still moment occurred in our backyard on a Saturday. The boys were young and having fun running and jumping in the leaves. Our backyard was very large because we lived on a corner lot. It was big enough to set up a baseball diamond, which was convenient because we had a houseful of boys who loved to play baseball.

James had meticulously planted beautiful red cannas around the parameter of yard, a huge feat since the size of the yard was almost a half acre. He had tilled and planted a vegetable garden in the back of the lot. He grew okra, green beans, yellow crook-neck squash, tomatoes, potatoes, and even cantaloupe on occasion. He had made a sandbox out of timbers near the swing set so the boys had a great park in which to play long hours.

It was a Saturday routine for James to be digging in the garden, and the boys playing in the yard. I had a good angle to watch from the window when I was at the kitchen sink. I glanced outside when I heard the boys laughing and giggling hysterically. I went outside to see what all the commotion was about, and that’s when it happened: the heart picture, the synapses in my brain that recorded a memory that has been stored in my heart for over thirty years.

As I write I can still hear the sound of the boys’ laughter and the rustle of the newly fallen leaves as they jumped onto the heap. I can feel the crisp air, and the promise of fall coming after a long, hot summer. I can see the contentment on James’ face as he prepares rows to plant seeds of fall vegetables; he smiles as he hears the laughter coming from the kids. Joseph’s red hat is bouncing up and down as he runs and laughs with hysteria. Five year old John has on a pair of light blue overalls, hiked up at the cuffs and filled with loose leaves. The leaves glisten in the sun with shades of red, yellow, orange and brown as seven year old EJ rakes them into a huge mountain. He gently organizes his younger brothers to run from a distance and jump with intent into the heap. They are ecstatic! After each jump, EJ grabs the rake and gathers the leaves, organizes his brothers, and everyone jumps and laughs and rolls into the stack again and again. 

As I watch him in the role of big brother, compassionate friend, leader, and mentor, I admire his innate ability to organize toddlers, and sacrifice to be the last to jump. I realize I need a photo, a hard copy of this moment because it will not last.  I snap a picture and the connection to my brain seers this image of a big brother loving his siblings.

“Deo gratias,” I murmur.