Sometimes when woken before I was ready, or more likely in the middle of the night because of her nocturnal habits, I’d be frustrated or think ungracious thoughts. Now, months later, I still waken with the hope that it is Carol in the kitchen under my bedroom. My sadness is often profound when I remember; she won’t waken me again, at least not by the dropping of bowls or the ding of the microwave.
When a plant bloomed or a new bird visited the garden, Carol would point it out to me or tell me what I’d missed. She wasn’t confident in her skill with plants, but liked to do what she could. She did have a go at planting bulbs though. She was given a packet of lovely freesia bulbs so thought she’d surprise me by “doing it herself.” She told me she had planted the bulbs and warned me to watch for the surprise when they came up.
I asked her which pot she’d used. Carol replied, “All of them!” She’d put a few bulbs in each of the outdoor pots without an understanding of the fact that different plants needed varying amounts of sun and moisture.
Her bulbs did come up and were still blooming even when she was no longer here to enjoy them.
Carol was also a philosopher, studying trauma and its affect on people. Some of her reading was far too deep and too dark for my liking. We’d discuss ideas and authors we had in common. One day I threw her a name I’d run across and she pursued it with enthusiasm. We met in the middle on many things and overlapped at times.
She knew my love and devotion to Jesus was the central theme of my life, the cord to which all else was attached. I asked her about her concept of God. We were in the garage. I was repotting a plant and she was on her stair master climbing yet another mountain with her book propped up on the handrail. “Carol, can this higher power you refer to know you and be known by you? Is He personal or impersonal?” I asked her if she minded me referring to Him with the masculine pronoun as that is what I was comfortable with.
She thought a bit and responded a bit, but then asked if we could come back to the topic after she had considered it more fully. Sure, we could, and we did.
A few days later, as she was getting up momentum to head up the driveway to the road, she shouted up at me on the deck, “Yes!’
I shouted back, “Great! What was the question?”
She stopped and looked up, “He can be known and He can know me.”
That then set the foundation for how our conversations could proceed. We had to have common ground and she seemed to arrive easily at a place I thought I could converse from. Philosophy. Theology. Two people who shared space on planet Earth.
At times I’d find copies of articles on the cabinet at the bottom of the stairs, interesting things Carol had come across in her research and thought might interest me. At times I left books or references for her. We spoke of liminal space and she got very excited. She loved it when philosophy and theology found a common section of road or at least an intersection. Sometimes she’d send me a link or a joke via email. She would think and study through the night, so I’d often find a message she’d sent from the university, yet while I was reading it in the morning, she’d be sleeping in her bed right under my office.
Once I received an animated picture of Gollum peeking over the edge of the email. Under it Carol had written, “Just peeking in to see how you are doing?” With her well-developed sense of humour, I think she too saw the semblance between her and that tortured creature in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. By the clothing she wore, she might have also likened herself to a house elf, not worthy of much more than rags. After finding a quality shirt or shorts in the Lost & Found at the gym or university, Carol would often remodel them with scissors, sometimes going a bit far and compromising a seam or neckline. The elastic was first to go, as any kind of stricture was uncomfortable. Then there needed to be room for good ventilation as heat was difficult for Carol to tolerate. Often safety pins or rough resewing would be required to keep things on. Our clothesline looked like something from a refugee camp.
to be continued . . .
When a plant bloomed or a new bird visited the garden, Carol would point it out to me or tell me what I’d missed. She wasn’t confident in her skill with plants, but liked to do what she could. She did have a go at planting bulbs though. She was given a packet of lovely freesia bulbs so thought she’d surprise me by “doing it herself.” She told me she had planted the bulbs and warned me to watch for the surprise when they came up.
I asked her which pot she’d used. Carol replied, “All of them!” She’d put a few bulbs in each of the outdoor pots without an understanding of the fact that different plants needed varying amounts of sun and moisture.
Her bulbs did come up and were still blooming even when she was no longer here to enjoy them.
Carol was also a philosopher, studying trauma and its affect on people. Some of her reading was far too deep and too dark for my liking. We’d discuss ideas and authors we had in common. One day I threw her a name I’d run across and she pursued it with enthusiasm. We met in the middle on many things and overlapped at times.
She knew my love and devotion to Jesus was the central theme of my life, the cord to which all else was attached. I asked her about her concept of God. We were in the garage. I was repotting a plant and she was on her stair master climbing yet another mountain with her book propped up on the handrail. “Carol, can this higher power you refer to know you and be known by you? Is He personal or impersonal?” I asked her if she minded me referring to Him with the masculine pronoun as that is what I was comfortable with.
She thought a bit and responded a bit, but then asked if we could come back to the topic after she had considered it more fully. Sure, we could, and we did.
A few days later, as she was getting up momentum to head up the driveway to the road, she shouted up at me on the deck, “Yes!’
I shouted back, “Great! What was the question?”
She stopped and looked up, “He can be known and He can know me.”
That then set the foundation for how our conversations could proceed. We had to have common ground and she seemed to arrive easily at a place I thought I could converse from. Philosophy. Theology. Two people who shared space on planet Earth.
At times I’d find copies of articles on the cabinet at the bottom of the stairs, interesting things Carol had come across in her research and thought might interest me. At times I left books or references for her. We spoke of liminal space and she got very excited. She loved it when philosophy and theology found a common section of road or at least an intersection. Sometimes she’d send me a link or a joke via email. She would think and study through the night, so I’d often find a message she’d sent from the university, yet while I was reading it in the morning, she’d be sleeping in her bed right under my office.
Once I received an animated picture of Gollum peeking over the edge of the email. Under it Carol had written, “Just peeking in to see how you are doing?” With her well-developed sense of humour, I think she too saw the semblance between her and that tortured creature in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. By the clothing she wore, she might have also likened herself to a house elf, not worthy of much more than rags. After finding a quality shirt or shorts in the Lost & Found at the gym or university, Carol would often remodel them with scissors, sometimes going a bit far and compromising a seam or neckline. The elastic was first to go, as any kind of stricture was uncomfortable. Then there needed to be room for good ventilation as heat was difficult for Carol to tolerate. Often safety pins or rough resewing would be required to keep things on. Our clothesline looked like something from a refugee camp.
to be continued . . .
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