In the Blink of an Eye

An evening light show erupts in the bushes as we drive up the unfamiliar driveway. Laser lights randomly flash on and off, beckoning me into the backyard. Blink, blink, blink. What on earth? Tiny mag-lights dart spasmodically around the yard, playing hide and seek in the bushes. No, not mag-lights - lightning bugs! I haven't seen one since we left Illinois in 1971, and had forgotten about them, but they haven't forgotten me. Here they are welcoming me back to the Midwest - beacons of hospitality blinking, "Hello," while pointing my way back to the past.

Thirty-five years have passed since I last looked over one of the cities of my childhood. Farms, suburbs, and expressways compress to fill the tiny window next to my seat on the airplane as I search for something familiar. Water towers that look like tiny mushrooms strategically dot the landscape marking out each of Chicago's west side suburbs.

Seven presidents have come and gone since I was here. Vietnam finally ended and Shannon's prisoner-of-war father returned home a hero. Nixon resigned because of Watergate and Lady Diana Spencer married Prince Charles; later presenting him with the proverbial "heir and a spare." The Berlin Wall fell amid joyous celebration, while AIDS ominously rose from within our own borders. Millions died. Diana died. Fax machines transported documents over phone lines, the internet invaded, and we turned the calendar on a new millennium. America miraculously survived the Y2K bug in 2000, only to be attacked by terrorists just one year later on September 11th, 2001.

"So teach us to number our days, that we may present to you a heart of wisdom." Psalm 90:12

As the plane descends to O'Hare Airport, I return in my mind to manic bike rides home during tornado warnings, lazy summer days by the community pool, bad hair cuts, first days of school, piles of autumn leaves, early winter snows, and flag football games at Cornell Park. With one thought of the Des Plaines city limit sign, my heart lurches back to the last moments of my childhood - before make-up and breakups, before acne, low self-esteem, black light posters, and Jesus Christ Superstar. Vietnam War footage, prisoners of war, anti-war riots, Soviet domination, and fall-out shelters also attempt to invade this moment; but my heart draws me beyond the anxious events of the era into a room long forgotten by the obligations of a life in progress.

Blink, blink, blink.

How quickly the years have passed! I was eleven when I said goodbye to Illinois and my first boyfriend who hopped on his spider bike with the banana seat and rode away. I was thirteen when I learned to ride a horse in the foothills of Colorado Springs, fourteen when John Denver filled up my senses with Rocky Mountain sentiments, and fifteen when I realized my rebellious lifestyle was pushing out any remnants of a tender new faith in God.

A youth sponsor called me back to my faith my senior year of high school.  Soon I was in Bible College, graduating, then married with three kids in my twenties. I blazed through my thirties raising our boys, served in our church, and coped with job changes for Bob; which required many moves for our family. Now in my late forties, I've returned to the Chicago area to celebrate the wedding of our oldest son.

Blink, blink, blink.

My old neighborhood looks just the same as I remember, so now I am eager to see if the elementary school is suspended in time like Amherst Avenue is. Carol, a soon-to-be family member, drives down Princeton to Wolf. I don't remember Wolf, and am convinced it was named something else when I lived here. We cross over and drive around Chippewa Middle School and the pool where I spent almost every day of every summer. In the winter, the park department would flood the field next to the pool with water so we could ice skate. When it got too cold outside, we huddled around space heaters in the locker room to spare our toes from frostbite.

It doesn't appear that any major additions have been made to Chippewa or to Cumberland Elementary next door. Surprisingly, no obvious decay seems evident either. Carol drives around the back of Cumberland to see what has become of the field I used to play in. Concerned that my favorite tree on the playground has been euthanized to make way for progress, I hurry around the corner of the building to look.

Drooping like a little child wearing an old bed sheet, the hangy tree still lives! Its gnarly, arthritic roots swell painfully above the ground exposing bony joints that long ago lost their grip on the ground below, but the geriatric tree hasn't lost touch with the children who have passed through the school's hallways. We all spent time hiding underneath the playground's secure confessional. Secrets whispered between best friends, kisses stolen during recess, plots hatched to get out of class, dreams for our tomorrows, and tears shed by frightened boys hiding from this year's bully, all run through the veins of the tree's memory. Each child's history is recorded in the tree's internal record book - including my own.

Have you ever sat down and numbered your days? I did it once, when I had just turned forty-five. I'm not sure which was more scary - turning forty-five, or realizing that my days of significant impact on the world could be fewer than those I had just lived. I took a sheet of paper and estimated how many days I would have left to invest if I live to be seventy-five years old. If my husband dies at age seventy, I will only have 9,125 days left to be his wife. After his death I could live 1,825 days as a widow. I will have 10,950 more days to write, so I have lots of time to do that! But, I would only have 730 days to be a mother to my youngest son before he leaves for college, two more Christmases with him before he's out on his own, and one more summer family vacation. The most troubling statistic of all is that I would only have 3,650 days to return to Spain before I turn fifty-five...and I've already used half of those days since I did the calculations!

Immediately I was shocked by the black and white brevity of life on the paper in front of me, but I shouldn't have been. James 4:14 says, "Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away." If I'm just a vapor that comes and goes in a whisper, how do I want to spend my time while I'm here?

I do know I don't want to just spend it, I want to invest it.

Teach us to number our days, Lord, that we may present to you a heart of wisdom.

Blink, blink, blink.

Copyright © Donna A. Tallman, 2009. Please contact author at delsie2002@yahoo.com for permission to reprint.