“Whoa, pull over!” I cry.
Phone in hand, I scramble past the curb. An entire front yard froths with blooms the size of faces — some of the stems six feet tall! — a sea of lavender, white, and magenta phlox, illumined by westerly light.
Dreamer follows me, and their lingering, sunset perfume envelops us, gauzy as spun sugar.
A door slams, and a slender gentleman exits the house.
“This is amazing,” I call. “May I take pictures?”
“Help yourself,” he says, with a grin. “Let me call the owner,” he adds. “She’ll want to meet you.”
A moment later a petite woman draped in bright colors joins us. She grins. Silvery strands thread her waist-long pony tail. “Perfect timing! I’m so glad you’re here!” she cries. “Walk through the arch and I’ll meet you out back.”
Curious, we turn. A flagstone path beckons. We check our watches.
We were en route to a surprise birthday party — a tad nervous, introverts that we are.
Now, it seems we are stepping right out of time . . . and into a corner of Eden. Birdsong ripples. Sculptural swans and angels peer out between fiery dahlias, towering canna lilies. Snowy datura foregrounds a fence.
A screen door bangs. “Here,” says our hostess. “Put these on. I’m going to take pictures, okay? LOTS of pictures. You’re going to love it! Pick a hat.”
Rakish Dreamer winks, tilting a brim.
“Wrap yourself in this,” she tells me, holding out a vintage sable stole. “And this!” She flourishes a black mid-century cocktail hat. It resembles an oversize mussel shell, pierced with a jaunty feather. “Use the garage door mirror,” she urges. “Get everything just right.”
Seems to me our blithe sprite of a guide, her gaiety both palpable and insistent, must be obeyed.
“Stand here, you two,” she directs. “Beside my sign.”
And I, chronic dodger of cameras, mug for the lens. Picture sweeping gestures. Madcap poses. I inhabit the fur, that fetching hat.
What’s happening here?
Gaiety rises. We laugh amid multiple takes — one, a video, with me proclaiming our 50th anniversary this month.
Feels like she’s waited — all her life — for us.
As if our arrival has always been her dearest wish.
We’ve not even exchanged names, yet we all exude contagious delight.
Will heaven be like this?
“I’m throwing a garden party,” she says. “Will you come? Say yes!”
Welcome to prevenient grace. Anticipating your hesitation as well as your secret longing, prevenient grace “goes before you to prepare a place for you.”*
So here’s to the Spirit, nudging its agents of whimsy, offsetting our post-pandemic habit of fearing others.
And here’s to the startling largesse of strangers.
Long live felicity! — each of us fractionally grasping the prodigal child’s wonder.
Belatedly, Dreamer and I recall the party we’re now running late for . . .
No. The party we’re now prepared for:
Two aging adults, at sunset,
beyond grateful to be together,
graced by backyard felicity,
eager to spread gaiety
to others who may have forgotten
what it’s like to be young at heart,
utterly welcomed. Wanted.
If you’ve been recently nudged toward joy, how is it changing you?
Meanwhile, let’s watch for the pure in heart, who “may be as shopworn and clay-footed as [we are], but have somehow kept some inner freshness and innocence intact.” —Buechner, Whistling in the Dark
P.S. In the language of flowers, showstopper “phlox represents pure intentions and commitment to a relationship that outlives youthful infatuation.”
You might also enjoy this post on felicity, from the archives
