The Faith Of Thelma Faye

The Faith of Thelma Faye

I remember feeling protected as I snuggled in the warmth of my mother's strong arms. My bed was veiled in a green canopy. She spread her warmth so wide it encompassed our whole world as we could see it. And there were a lot of us. She was like the old women who lived in a shoe. So many children... Except she knew. She sheltered and nurtured us and taught us everything she could before setting us free out into a world unknown. She taught our family history and mysteries of what could be.

When gentle breezes rustled the leaves she whispered be calm and know that you will always be loved. When tempests roared she assured no matter what could befall us we would be cherished and remain a part of the universe, a crucial arc in the circle of life. And so I matured watching the magic of a world just waiting to embrace and show me a place.

“Mother,” I would ask, “what is the sound I hear?”

“Ah, listen to the angels sing,” she answered as we surveyed a little white building with a tall point above the roof top and a sturdy glistening portal.

I would watch weekly as beings filtered in and out of that building. Appearing downtrodden as they went in and uplifted as they filed out.

“Why the difference?”

“They have left their burdens inside.”

“What is the point on top for?”

“It points to the one who washes away their sorrows.”

“What is the portal made of?”

“Well, that is a family heirloom. Your grandmother gave her all for that doorway.”

“Whatever do you mean?” So my mother told me her story.

“I started growing up very close to my mother's knee,” she said. “A little too close and I was being overshadowed. Workers were busy building this edifice. They needed something spectacular for the opening. They realized the gift for their dilemma was standing right before them. My mother was very, very old by this time and had withstood many, many heartaches along with many blessings. She considered it to be a most honored blessing to provide the material necessary to create a masterpiece that became the great oaken doorway into their new chapel. You can even get a glimpse of the alter and railing inside when the door is flung open. Those are also your grandmother's contribution.”

I gained a new respect and admiration of the little building after that.

“Tell me, Mother, what will I be?”

“What will be, will be. The future is not ours to see,” my wise mother reminded.

And so the season seasoned forth and I took more interest in the beings I beheld. There was a cute chubby one. She often scampered about until a pretty lady the fair-haired tall man called 'Margretha' beseeched, “Don't get dirty, Gertie.”

Sometimes I could spot 'Gertie' with other children as they gathered about the stump I now knew was Grandmother's and they would listen to stories or sing songs much like the angelic ones I heard coming from the chapel. It was a peaceful and enriched time in my life when I could also watch the critters of the sky or the sneaky, squeaky squirrels, as Mother said they were, scurry about.

Then the winds blew stronger and colder. I watched in wonder as so many of my brethren departed to a bewildering fate. The warm, green, friendly leaves that had veiled me for so long changed to magnificent colors then let go and floated away leaving me totally exposed!

“Oh, Mother! What is happening?”

“It is time. Remember all I have taught you. What will be will be. Go forth into the world.” She released me and down, down I went!

“Oh, ouch!” I bounced and rolled but didn't go too far. I was sure one of those sneaky squeaky squirrels would gobble me up or save me for later, as Mother had told us. I would provide proper nourishment then go lickity-split out and become part of the warm humus of the earth ready for a new cycle of life. Is that really all there would be? I was hoping for so much more. But what will be will be. I will be grateful and as helpful as can be. Suddenly one of those beautiful, colorful leaves landed on top of me. Very welcoming and warm. Perhaps safe again?

It was only a day or two then the leaf was lifted. “Oh,Mother, look at this beautiful leaf I found! And look at the perfect acorn it is hiding!” It was cute little Gertie and her mother, Margretha!

“Oh, that will be a cherished addition to our cornucopia for Thanksgiving on the altar.”

And so I was carried inside the chapel, arranged with other beautiful gifts of the land and placed on top of the altar Grandmother had sacrificed so much for. I got to hear close up praise and thanksgiving to the One who had sacrificed so much for so many. Yes, it was so fulfilling to be so loved. I understood now how these people felt as they laid their burdens upon the Christ and were nurtured with His body and blood and heard the words of scripture balm their troubled souls. If I could have I would sing praises,too. I was proud to be a tiny part of His creation.

Thanksgiving passed to the next holy day and I was put away into a deep dark place. But I could still hear some of the merriment and singing and reading of the Word. I learned much. Time passed and as each Thanksgiving rolled around I was once again placed among the bounty. But some of my luster must have faded.

Margretha rummaged around in the closet. “Here are some acorns that will work for the children's craft project. We will gather fresher acorns next Thanksgiving.”

I found myself staring up at Gertie, her small pink tongue eschewed to the corner of her lips, as she meticulously glued me to a wooden stick and fashioned it with others to create a frame for a crayon drawing. For good measure she drew a little happy face on me beneath my burnished crown. Now I hang smiling out over the children in a small room. Of course, honored to be of use. Bonus! I get to hear of parables and miracles of the Good Shepherd.

Once again years pass. Gertie grows and I am pleased to see her as a beautiful young bride dressed to walk down the aisle with a long veil swirling around her ready to pool on the floor in a perfect photograph along side her handsome young gentleman with wavy dark hair. I can hear familiar chords drifting down from above having witnessed a few ceremonies in my time on the altar.

Soon, Gertie has a babe in her arms whenever she passes through my room. That babe is dressed in a long white gown and I know she will be presented at the baptismal font for her Christening. Wonder what her name will be? Sort of wish I had a name and I could be Christened. “Acorn” is okay, I guess. I am content. I smile.

Yes, I have been forgotten about hanging a little lopsided midst other kid art creations. Suddenly Gertie pauses in front of me returning my smile.

“I think this is a frame I made years ago. Kind of dull and crumbly. But the picture is of rainbows which my children love because it reminds them of God's promises. Maybe I should reclaim it and have the children refresh the colors.”

So she packed me up with her other teaching aids to take me to her house. Oh, good, I can get to know her children better!

But, alas, I never made it. Well, maybe my jaunty little cap clung to the stick and made it there but the rest of me was jumbled loose and fell on the way out the door.

I rolled beside a large stump in the front courtyard of the little church. Kind of reminded me of the parable of the seed sower. Wonder where I landed. What will become of me? As I looked closer I realized there were two stumps. One much older and moss covered. Yes, Mother and Grandmother. Well, I felt old and dried up inside so figured it was now time for me to become fodder for the fold and be recycled for the next life.

But to my amazement I was veiled again with freshly falling leaves and a dollop of moist earth and could feel myself reaching new sprouts down into the earth to take root. Within a couple of years I grew to be a healthy sapling. Praise be to the Good Lord, I could look around the growing neighborhood and witness Gertie's children growing just as fast.

Unfortunately, some long-nosed busybodies decided a sapling tree did not belong in this spot because it would grow way too big and ruin the foundation just like that other mighty oak had been doing for too many years. It had to come down.

Gertie came to the rescue.

“You know the children have been wanting an experimental project making paper out of wood chips. The fine soft wood of this young tree could provide the perfect pulp for their creativity.”

Not that any of it was pleasant but I was hewed, chipped, soaked, died a new color, wrung out, spread out to dry and miraculously I had a new form. Mother always said what will be will be. I don't think even she would have expected this. I was a very rough form of parchment the children could draw on. I traveled home with them and was pinned to some boards of cork more than once where I got new views of a variety of families. When they bored of me I was crumpled and thrown into bins to recycle. Now I had multiple lives. I was processed into many types of card stock. I can't name them all.

Maybe I have passed through your hands, held your words on my face? I had the world to embrace still searching for my final resting place. 'Recycle, renew, reuse' became the cry of the land to save the planet so I have never been completely erased.

But let me tell you of just a scrap. I was on a rack, way to the back. Before me were greeting cards, sweet sentimental thoughts usually in rhyme. I was one of the chosen. I went along with a beautiful girl with long flowing red hair. She sat at a desk a long time deciding the perfect adjunct to say to express all her emotion. She held the card open long enough for me to catch the drift of the message. It was to her mother. How sheltered and special she had been made to feel while learning important life lessons at her knee. Of course, it reminded me of my own supportive mother.

Then she picked me up and wrote in the very middle “Thelma Faye”. I rejoiced. I finally was given a name. It sounded melodious to me reminding me of the angels singing so many years ago in the simple chapel. She licked and sealed my flap and pressed a stamp for good measure. I was whisked away. Flew like the wind way above the earth. When I landed I barely recognized the cherub-like white-haired lady that plucked me out of the delivery tube. But, yes, harkening back years and lifetimes ago I was sure it was Gertie's little child.

Gertie's child must have been Christened 'Thelma Faye' just like me! What I learned about her was she never cared about recycling. She cherished everything ever given to her especially by her children. That is not to say she didn't reuse things because she reused me.

I was tucked or more like crammed away with other mementos and long forgotten. Then one day a beautiful woman shuffled through all the confusion and found me. She was moved to tears. On the back of my unassuming facade, along with the gooey flap and jagged seam, was written in flowing script, never to be rewritten, a heartwarming poem about motherhood and how it would carry on into eternity. It included a phrase or two of apology for not being the kind of mother she had aspired to be. Oh, and a happy face smile! To this day, though she is starting to gray, the red-haired woman has me - a lowly envelop with faded rhyme - framed and hanging in a place of honor on her bedroom wall so she can be reminded daily of the faith of Thelma Faye.