“Behold, now is the acceptable time; now is the day of salvation.” 2 Corinthians 6:2b
It is Wednesday, August 29, and the walnut tree has already begun her letting go. Yellow leaves spiral gently to the ground. Joel stands at the kitchen window, transfixed.
“The trees are falling,” he whispers, his voice wonder-filled.
Fall is Joel’s favorite season. He can stand for great blocks of time—this child with virtually no attention span—and be transported into some other realm of existence as the trees go about their business of letting go.
I set the laundry basket on the table and join him. The lazy, swirling movement of the leaves is mesmerizing.
“Yes, the trees are falling,” I agree absentmindedly, for once not correcting his word choice.
I stand as if in a dream, my mind far away. I have been finding it more and more difficult to live in the present moment, my brain forever whizzing into the future. What if Joel’s school year is a repeat of last year’s disaster? What if the new meds don’t work? What if his aggression gets worse? What if I can’t handle the stress any longer? Where will he live as an adult? How will we handle letting him go out into the world, this child we’ve tended so carefully—this child who has cost us so much in energy and patience—this child who has gifted us so freely with love?
Watching the golden wings of walnut leaves helicopter to the ground, I am suddenly filled with a dread of the dark, dank days of winter to come. Picking up the laundry basket, I pull myself away from the view as well as the thought.
I put the clothes away and come back to the kitchen, only to find that Joel has left his window watch. I call his name.
“Basement,” he answers, his voice floating, deep and man-like, up the stairwell. To my surprise, he sounds just like his father. While I’ve been worrying, he’s been growing up. Although cognitively he’s yet to pass the age of four, at fifteen the hormones are right on target.
I peer down the steps into semi-darkness.
“What are you doing down there?”
Uncharacteristically, he answers immediately.
“Lookin’ for angels.” He steps into the light at the bottom of the stairs and looks up at me, his face earnest. “The trees are falling,” he continues, as if that explains it all.
“I know the leaves are falling, Joel. Fall comes before winter. Christmas comes in winter, honey.”
“Time to get the angels out,” he insists, pointing to the cupboard where we keep the Christmas decorations. “The trees are falling!”
Photo credit: Aaron Burden on Unsplash.com.
Joel’s logic defies me until the musings of Madeleine L’Engle pop into my mind. L’Engle often writes about kairos time—God’s time—where past, present and future exist at the same moment. For God there is no past, no present, no future; simply the sacred now.
In God’s time, as the walnut drops her leaves on this hot and humid August afternoon, it is, simultaneously, that very first Christmas. Even as angels announce that holy event, Joel announces to me, on this Wednesday afternoon at the tail end of summer, that something very sacred is happening right this very moment. Through the walnut tree, through Joel, through angels stored in the basement, I am being called to live now, today. Not in the unknown and uncontrollable future, not in the past with its guilts and regrets, but in the present, holy moment.
I turn back to the kitchen window and allow myself to truly experience walnut leaves fluttering to the ground. The background noise of all my worries, as well as the sound of Joel rustling through the basement cupboard, is drowned out by the sigh of a late summer breeze.
Yes, Joel. It’s time to get the angels out.
O Lord, no intelligence testing, no behavior graphs, no diagnosis will ever sum up my son’s capabilities. He teaches me daily about the eternal nature of your kingdom, if I stop long enough to listen. Today he gave me a glimpse of the weight of your glory. How does the world catalog that kind of spiritual insight? Help me be open to all he has to teach me: how to let go of anxiety about the future, guilt and shame over the past, and how to simply live in the present moment—here, now, today. Amen.
This is one of my favorite memories from life with Joel, and one of the most important lessons he's taught me over the years. I get it out every August and remind myself that even as the walnut leaves begin to fall, even as I am gripped by the sadness of one kind of letting go or another, it is, in Kairos time, that very first Christmas. When I allow myself to live in the moment, I am in the midst of God's glory. This story can be found as a chapter entitled "Of Walnut Trees and Angels," along with many other lessons Joel taught me over the first ten years of his life in His Name is Joel: Searching for God in a Son's Disability.
Kathy is a spiritual director, author, and co-owner, with her husband, of Cloudland, a contemplative retreat center outside of Oxford, Ohio. The mother of 3 sons, 1 daughter-of-heart, and 1 grandson, she also enjoys writing middle grade fiction. You can reach her through her website, kathleenbolduc.com.
