Not a Lily, But a Stone
“Her face was fair and pretty, with eyes like two bits of night sky, each with a star dissolved in the blue.”
-George MacDonald, The Princess and the Goblin
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Just like a lily, she thinks. MacKenna lays in the grass and stares up at the white columns towering over her at the edge of the patio. She can see her mother easily moving inside. The back of the house receives the cement patio with three sets of French doors, alternating with large bay windows. Her mother is lighting dozens of white pillar candles, wandering from the kitchen, past the wide staircase, into the living room, and then out of view into the dining room. From time to time MacKenna’s mother would decide to throw a big party.
This evening the young girl’s mind is full of all the people who will soon color her white home. MacKenna is convinced that it is not because their house is big, with its grand white entry hall and staircase, nor that its huge stone fireplace and oversized white coaches make it one of the most elegant homes around, the prettiest place MacKenna has ever seen. It is not even that her mother is the prettiest woman, though MacKenna is certain she is, with her blue mosaic eyes and lily-like frame. MacKenna knows that in less than an hour the house will be full because everyone loves her parents. She’d watched her mother chat with the other women in the school office on Fridays, laughing as she gracefully sorted through the files. Her mother whose beauty had the same affect on a room as a vase of flowers, and her dad who seemed to know everyone and just how to tease them. The unlikely, but perfect duo. On Sunday mornings, her dad would give the announcements at church, the highlight of everyone’s morning she was sure. It was abnormal for the whole congregation to not burst into laughter at least once in his routine. She’d smile, usually unaware of the joke, but she’d know her dad had made them all happy and that was all that mattered to her.
It is close to seven and in a few minutes friends will begin arriving for the party for her mother’s friend. MacKenna has been looking forward to it for weeks, counting how many days she had to wait every morning when she woke up. She lives for these parties, not just because of the colorful food her mom and dad make, but for the noise it brings into her house. The noise of people. If today had been a common summer day, she would have slept in a little late (her mom would have been grateful she didn’t have all five kids running around at 7am and would let her sleep in for a couple more hours if she wanted). Then, she’d have wandered down to the kitchen, her dark curls still tumbling from their sleep dance. She’d have smiled and gotten something to eat. Before noon her siblings would be back in their rooms, or cuddled in front of the fire reading their new favorite authors. She hated to read.
“How is it that you HATE to read?” her siblings often took turns grilling her. She didn’t know how, but she did know it could leave her mighty bored on a summer day when all her siblings flipped from page to page. Set in the middle of five children, she wondered how it was that all the others could be so enthralled in their books? She could easier enjoy watching a person read then sorting through the words herself. Only Grayson, her younger brother, would regularly side with her, opting to build a fort outside or wrestle their dog Lulu over reading a book. Braden now nineteen, Madison fourteen, and Kol just six could all consume a book for an entire day, just stirring to eat and drink. If the book was something amazing, even Grayson could sit for hours, using his right hand to rub the edge of his red hair at the temple, then switching the book from his left to right hand, and lifting his left to massage the other side. Nope, not me, thought MacKenna, I’ll pass on Braden’s science fiction and Madison’s Austen addiction, and she couldn’t understand a word of what her mom called the classics.
BUT TODAY HAD NOT BEEN A NORMAL DAY. TODAY HAD BEEN A PARTY DAY AND THAT MEANT A BUSY DAY FULL OF PREPARATIONS. NO TIME FOR ANYONE TO READ. THIS MORNING SHE’D CRAWLED OUT OF BED, NOISILY ENOUGH TO WAKE HER LITTLE SISTER. BEFORE HEADING DOWNSTAIRS, SHE WENT INTO THE BATHROOM. SHE BRUSHED HER HAIR AND HER TEETH, THEN MARCHED BACK DOWN THE HALL TO HER ROOM. FLINGING OPEN THE DOOR TO MAKE SURE KOL KNEW IT WAS A GREAT MORNING, MACKENNA WALKED IN AND OVER TO HER WHITE DRESSER, WHERE SHE PULLED OUT HER FAVORITE DARK BLUE JEANS AND HER FAVORITE PURPLE SHIRT.
SHE REACHED UNDER THE BED TO GRAB HER CONSTANT COMPANION, BUT IT WASN’T THERE. HER HEART STOPPED FOR A SECOND, AND SHE FELT LITTLE EMBERS RISE TO HER PALE CHEEKS. HER DENIM HAT WAS MORE THAN A FAVORITE HAT, IT WAS MORE THAN A GOOD-LUCK CHARM, IT WAS MORE THAN THE WARN-SOFT DENIM PIECE SHE CUDDLED AT NIGHT, IT WAS THE HAT HER BROTHER BRADEN HAD GIVEN HER THE NIGHT BEFORE HE’D LEFT FOR COLLEGE IN NEW YORK. “IT MUST HAVE FALLEN UNDER LAST NIGHT,” MACKIE TOLD HERSELF CONFIDENTLY AS SHE REACHED A LITTLE DEEPER AND SWEPT HER HAND ALONG THE FLOOR, FEELING THE LIGHT DUST ON THE WOOD PANELS. NO HAT.
AS SHE WIPED HER FINGERS ON HER JEANS, SHE TOOK A STEP BACK. SHE COULD SMELL SAUSAGE DOWNSTAIRS. ANOTHER REASON WHY SHE LOVED PARTY DAYS! BUT SHE WASN’T GOING DOWNSTAIRS WITHOUT HER HAT. IT DIDN’T MAKE SENSE FOR IT TO BE ANYWHERE ELSE, SHE COULD REMEMBER FALLING ASLEEP WITH IT IN HER ARMS LAST NIGHT. IN THE RARE BEGINNINGS OF A PANIC SHE BEGAN TO PULL BACK HER WHITE DOWN DUVET. NOTHING, SO SHE JERKED OFF THE TOP SHEET. WITHIN A MOMENT HER MATTRESS LAID BARE, AND SHE CRUMPLED INTO THE HEAP OF COVERS AND WHITE COTTON ON HER FLOOR. SHE WOULD’VE CRIED, EXCEPT SHE NEVER CRIED WITHOUT HER DENIM HAT TO COVER HER FACE, NOT ONCE SINCE SHE’D GOT IT LAST AUGUST.
HE MUST HAVE KNOWN MACKENNA WAS GOING TO TAKE HIS LEAVING HARD THAT LATE AUGUST DAY, BECAUSE WHEN BRADEN WALKED DOWN THE GREAT WHITE STAIRS, A DUFFEL BAG OVER HIS RIGHT SHOULDER AND A SUITCASE TRAILING IN HIS LEFT HAND, HE’D PULLED WHAT LOOKED LIKE A BLUE DOLL DRESS OUT OF HIS BLAZER POCKET. HER EYES HAD ALREADY BEGUN TO FILL WITH TEARS, ERASING THE IMAGE OF BRADEN WALKING TOWARD HER BEFORE HE EVEN REACHED THE BOTTOM STEPS. SHE HAD HATED IT. HER LAST MINUTES WITH HIM HAD LEFT TOO QUICKLY. HE HAD DROPPED BOTH HIS BAGS, AND BENT OVER TILL HE COULD LOOK INTO HER WET NAUTICAL EYES. THEN HE HAD OPENED THE DENIM PIECE AND PULLED IT OVER HER HEAD; IT WAS NOT A DRESS AT ALL, BUT A HAT. HER NEW FAVORITE HAT. BECAUSE OF HER TEARS, SHE COULDN’T SEE EXACTLY WHAT IT LOOKED LIKE, BUT IT DIDN’T MATTER. HER OLDER BROTHER HAD BOUGHT IT JUST FOR HER. HE HAD HUGGED HER GOODBYE AND GAVE HER A RIDICULOUSLY BIG KISS ON THE CHECK THAT MADE HER LAUGH. SHE WAS GLAD FOR THE EXCUSE TO WIPE HER CHEEK, ALLOWING HER TO QUICKLY REMOVE HER TEARS AT THE SAME TIME. SHE HADN’T STAYED TO WATCH HIM WALK OUT THE DOOR. INSTEAD, SHE HAD RUN UP TO HER ROOM AND WITH HER NEW FAVORITE HAT IN HER ARMS, SHE CRIED. SHE HAD CRIED UNTIL HER TEARS FED HER DREAMS.
“MACKIE!” WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” KOL STAMMERED OUT. HER BRIGHT AUBURN HAIR DIRECTING TRAFFIC EVERY DIRECTION IN THE ROOM. “MACKIE?”
“I CAN’T FIND MY HAT,” SHE SAID WITH A WHINE. MACKENNA DIDN’T EXPECT AN ANSWER, KOL WAS ONLY SIX AND COULDN’T BE TOO MUCH HELP. SO SHE THOUGHT, BUT ALL HER THOUGHTS WERE SMOKE-SMOTHERED BY THE SAUSAGE SIZZLING DOWNSTAIRS. SHE ROLLED OFF THE COVERS AND ONTO HER FEET AND SCUFFLED HER WAY DOWN THE STAIRS.
“MOM, DID YOU TAKE MY HAT?”
“WHAT?”
“MY HAT, IT’S NOT IN MY BED, ON THE FLOOR, OR IN MY DRAWER! I EVEN CHECKED UNDER MY BED! I CAN’T FIND IT ANYWHERE,” SHE STARTED TO WHINE. EVEN A PARTY DAY COULD BE AWFUL IF SHE DIDN’T HAVE HER HAT. HER MOM HADN’T LOOKED UP, AND CONTINUED TO ROTATE THE SAUSAGE IN THE PAN. “MOM? MY HAT?”
“SORRY MACKIE, I DIDN’T SEE IT THIS MORNING. AND I DON’T REALLY HAVE TIME TO LOOK FOR IT RIGHT NOW. I HAVE A HUNDRED THINGS TO DO FOR THE PARTY, AND A HUNDRED MORE I SHOULD HAVE DONE YESTERDAY. AND FIRST I NEED TO GET YOU FIVE FED, SO EAT UP.” MACKIE WASN’T VERY HUNGRY, SHE NEVER ATE WITHOUT HER HAT ON.
NO, IT HAD NOT BEEN A GOOD MORNING. SHE’D CONTINUED SEARCHING THE HOUSE, UNDOING MUCH OF THE WORK HER MOTHER AND OLDER SISTER ACCOMPLISHED. WHEN BRADEN, HOME FOR THE SUMMER, WALKED IN THE DOOR FROM WORK, HE’D FOUND HER ON HIS BED, EXHAUSTED, BUT DRY-EYED. SHE HADN’T CRIED, AND IT HAD TAKEN ALL HER STRENGTH TO HOLD BACK THE MASSIVE TEARS. HE COULD BUY HER ANOTHER DENIM HAT, HE’D ASSURED HER, HOLDING HER IN A GRIZZLY HUG. NOT A WORD CAME FROM HER. SHE DEBATED, BUT IT JUST WASN’T THE SAME, AND SHE’D EVENTUALLY TOLD HIM. HE RUBBED HIS SLIVERY FACE ACROSS HER SOFT CHEEK, UNTIL SHE LAUGHED AND PULLED AWAY. THEN HE WALKED INTO HIS CLOSET AND STARTED TO HUM. A FEW SECONDS LATER HE’D COME OUT, HOLDING HIS FAVORITE BLACK BASEBALL CAP. HE TIGHTENED THE BACK AS HE CROSSED THE ROOM, THEN SLID IT OVER HER DARK CURLS. EVEN WITH HER THICK CURLY HAIR, THE SMALLEST NOTCH WAS TOO BIG. HE COULDN’T SEE HER EYES, BUT HE COULD SEE HER SMILE, AND THAT WAS ENOUGH.
FINALLY SHE’D FELT SHE COULD THINK ABOUT THE PARTY AGAIN. SHE KNEW HER MOM WOULD NOT LET HER WEAR A BIG BLACK BASEBALL CAP TO THE PARTY, BUT SHE HOPED BY THEN TO FIND HER DENIM HAT. AND IF SHE DIDN’T, SHE’D AT LEAST HAVE BRADEN THERE TONIGHT, WITH HIS RED GROOMED SCRUFF ACROSS HIS FACE, DESIGNER JEANS AND BLAZER.
From the grass tonight, she can see her mom return into the kitchen and set the lighter on the white tiled countertop. It appears as though her mother smiles at her, but the dark night is hiding MacKenna’s contemplations about this morning from anyone in the light of the house. Next, her mother turns and pulls out the coffee pitcher and carries it to the sink, fills it, and returns. MacKenna watches her measure out the scoops, three-four-five-where dad would stop-six-seven. Her mother loves coffee deep, dark, strong. It is the only thing her mother doesn’t take white. She’d often teased that she needed a shot for each child. Early on, apparently she’d enjoyed lattes more; by the time Kol, the youngest was born it was a quad dopio espresso macchiato. Four shots and a scoop of crème. MacKenna watches her mother move a stem in the vase, arranging the tall bouquet on the counter. And MacKenna smiles proudly. They are hers.
THE DAY HAD TURNED EVEN WORSE AFTER THE LOST HAT. HER MOTHER HAD SENT HER TO GATHER A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS, MORE IN AN EFFORT TO GET HER OUT OF THE HOUSE SINCE MACKENNA HAD UPTURNED THE KITCHEN AND OPENED EVERY CABINET, DOOR, AND DRAWER LOOKING FOR HER HAT. THE HOUSE WAS NEVER WITHOUT FLOWERS, AND PARTY DAYS CALLED FOR THE BEST ARRANGEMENTS. HER MOTHER USUALLY SELECTED AND ARRANGED THE FLOWERS HERSELF, OR ON OCCASION, MADISON, THE OLDEST DAUGHTER, WOULD BE SENT OUT TO HER MOTHER’S CUTTING GARDEN.. MACKENNA COULD REMEMBER WHEN HER MOTHER FIRST GAVE THE CLIPPERS TO MADISON AND THE GROWN-UP WAY MADISON HAD CARRIED HERSELF THROUGH THE GARDEN. SHE’D SELECTED A BEAUTIFUL ARRANGEMENT, HER MOTHER HAD SAID. MACKENNA HAD STUDIED THE BOUQUET THAT DAY, KNOWING ONE DAY SHE’D FACE THE SAME MOMENT OF RESPONSIBILITY.
FROM THAT DAY, MACKENNA WAS SURE MADISON HAD EARNED A NEW ROLE IN THE HOUSE. SHE’D COME DOWN STAIRS AND CAUGHT THE END OF A CONVERSATION BETWEEN MADISON AND HER MOM, SITTING ON THE BARSTOOLS AT THE WHITE KITCHEN COUNTER. “IT IS BEAUTIFUL MADISON, YOU’LL SEE.” THEY’D STOPPED WHEN THEY HEARD HER ON THE STAIRS, AND WHEN SHE ROUNDED THE CORNER TO THE KITCHEN THEY SMILED THIS SECRET, KNOWING SMILE AT ONE ANOTHER BEFORE SHE COULD PIECE THEIR WORDS TOGETHER.
“MACKIE, GRAB THE WICKER BASKET IN THE GARAGE. IT’S TO THE RIGHT OF THE KITCHEN DOOR, “ HER MOTHER HAD INSTRUCTED AS SHE HANDED HER THE CLIPPERS. SHE COULDN’T SEE THE BASKET; INSTEAD, SHE GRABBED A 5 LB. BUCKET. WITH THE HANDLE OVER HER SHOULDER TO KEEP IT FROM SCRAPING, SHE OPENED UP THE GLASS FRENCH DOOR AND RAN ACROSS THE CEMENT PATIO. THE WET GRASS GREETED HER FEET AND SLOBBERED ON HER TOES, LEAVING TRACES OF YESTERDAY’S CLIPPINGS. SHE HATED THE FEELING OF DEW-COVERED GRASS, AND BENT OVER TO WIPE OFF THE SCRAPS. THEN, SHE SPRINTED OFF TO THE EDGE OF THE LAWN, WHERE HER MOTHER’S CAL LILIES, TULIPS, AND DAHLIAS WERE PLANTED IN AN ORDERLY FASHION. WHITE, MOSTLY. THE DAHLIAS AND TULIPS OFFERED A FEW BRIGHT ADJUSTMENTS, BUT NOT QUITE WHAT SHE WANTED.
SHE LOOKED AT THE DAISIES, THINKING THEY WEREN’T AS PRETTY WHEN YOU PICKED JUST ONE OR TWO, OR FOUR. SHE’D ONCE SEEN DAISIES ACROSS AN ENTIRE FIELD, THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL, THOUSANDS OF LITTLE PETALS, CONTENT IN THEIR SIMPLE HAPPINESS OF GROWING. THAT DAY HER FRIEND ASHLEY HAD EXPLAINED THAT OLD LADY KENDRICK HAD SCATTERED THEM AS A LITTLE GIRL. AS THE STORY WENT, HER DAD HAD GIVEN HER THREE DOLLARS TO SPEND HOWEVER SHE LIKED. SHE’D BOUGHT ENOUGH SEEDS TO COVER THE ACRE BEHIND HER HOUSE WITH WHITE AND GOLD DAISIES TO WIPE AWAY HER MOM’S ILLNESS. ACCORDING TO ASHLEY, SISTER KENRICK’S MOM DIED THE NEXT SUMMER. I GUESS SHE DIDN’T LIKE DAISIES MUCH. IF MY MOTHER GOT SICK, MACKENNA THOUGHT, A SMILE SUDDENLY STRETCHING ACROSS HER FACE, I’D PLANT LILIES AND BRING THEM TO HER EVERY MORNING WITH HER ESPRESSO. THAT WOULD MAKE HER WELL AGAIN. AND THEN I’D SING TO HER BECAUSE SHE’S TOLD ME MY VOICE IS LIKE AN ANGEL’S, AND WHEN THEY HEAR IT, THEY’LL ALL COME TO PLAY, CONVINCED THAT I WAS CREATED TO SING THEIR SONGS ON EARTH. SHE SAID THAT IF I WAS QUIET, I MIGHT HEAR THEM SINGING. MACKENNA LAUGHED. IF THE ESPRESSO AND LILIES WOULDN’T MAKE HER WELL AGAIN, THE ANGELS WOULD.
LAUGHING TO HERSELF, SHE’D CARRIED ON, EXAMINING EVERY ROSE, BACHELORS BUTTON, COSMO, AND PANSY. THEN, SHE HAD RETURNED TO THE LILIES AND COUNTED THEM. ONE. TWO. THREE. EIGHT. SHE HAD DECIDED TO CUT FOUR LILIES. THE PRETTIEST AND LONGEST STEMS. THE WHITE FLOWERS DREW OUT IN SIX LONG PETALS, THE LIMBS LIKE HER ARMS AND LEGS, ELEGANT AND LONG FOR HER AGE. SHE WAS THE TALLEST GIRL IN THE 4TH GRADE. AS SHE STARED INTO ITS HEART SHE SAW HER OWN FACE: FRECKLES AND LONG LASHES ON AN IVORY CORE. SHE DECIDED HER MOTHER WOULD APPROVE. AFTER ALL, IT WAS HER MOTHER IN HER THAT SHE SAW REFLECTED IN THE FLOWER.
THEN, SHE HAD CUT THE FOUR LILIES, LINED THEM UP AND TOSSED THEM INTO THE BUCKET, FRUSTRATED THAT THEY WEREN’T THE EXACT SAME LENGTH. THE BOUQUET ALREADY WASN’T PERFECT. THEN SHE SCANNED THE GARDEN FOR HER NEXT PIECE. SHE NOTICED THE TREES BEHIND. SHE THOUGHT OF THE BRIGHT BLUE FLOWERS SHE’D SEEN NEAR THEIR TREE FORT, YET SHE COULDN’T IMAGINE TRAVELING BEYOND THE REACH OF HER MOTHER’S VOICE. SHE CAN HEAR HER CALLING GRAYSON TO HELP UNLOAD THE DISHWASHER. EVERY FEW MINUTES SHE COULD HEAR THEM INSIDE LAUGHING AND JOKING, HER SIBLINGS SINGING AS AN OFF-KEY CHOIR. BESIDES, SHE’D SEEN VERY FEW WILD FLOWER ARRANGEMENTS, AND THEY WERE NEVER THE PARTY ARRANGEMENTS. INSTEAD, SHE’D PICK FLOWERS FOR A BOUQUET LIKE THE ONE AT THE CLINE’S LAST WEEKEND; ASHLEY’S MOTHER HAD PLACED LILIES, TULIPS, AND PURPLE DAHLIAS INTO A GIANT WHITE VASE. ALL THE WOMEN IN THEIR DARK FITTED JEANS AND SILK DRESS TOPS HAD REMARKED, “OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL BOUQUET LINDA.” YES, SHE WOULD PICK TULIPS AND DAHLIAS.
SHE CUT THE TULIPS, ONE YELLOW, TWO PINK, TO ALL DIFFERENT LENGTHS DESPITE HER BEST EFFORTS, AND PLACED THEM GENTLY IN THE PAIL. SHE GRABBED THE SILVER METAL HANDLE, AND TURNED TO THE RIGHT CORNER OF THE GARDEN, WHERE TWO PURPLE DAHLIAS GREW, THEIR FACES LIKE CHINESE DRAGONS. HER HAND TICKLED. SHE MOVED HER LEFT HAND INSTINCTIVELY TO BRUSH THE FLOWER OFF HER RIGHT, BUT IT TOUCHED NO STEM OR PETAL. HER EYES SHOT DOWN, AND CAUGHT THE FLASH OF A BLACK LITTLE CREATURE SCURRY OFF HER PINKY. SHE SCREAMED AND DROPPED THE BUCKET, SHAKING HER HAND. HER ENTIRE BODY SHOOK AND DANCED, AS SHE WHIMPERED. THEN SHE STOOD MOTIONLESS, STARING INTO THE GRASS, AS IF EXPECTING TO SEE THE SHARP BLACK SPIDER MOUNT A GREEN BLADE. WHEN HER EYES FINALLY FOCUSED, SHE SAW THE SILVER PAIL, TILTED ON ITS SIDE, PURPLE RAINDROPS SCATTERED ALL AROUND. SHE LOOKED UP AT THE KITCHEN WINDOWS. NO ONE. SHE GRABBED IT BY THE TOP RIM AND SET IT STRAIGHT. ON THE GROUND LAID FOUR WHITE LILIES, THEIR PETALS TURNED AND TWISTED. THREE TULIPS, MOSTLY SNAPPED AT THE STEMS. AND TWO DAHLIAS, BEHEADED.
MACKENNA FELL BACK, HER JEANS SOAKING IN THE DEW, AND TUCKED HER KNEES TO HER PURPLE SHIRT. HER CHIN HIT HER KNEES AND BRADEN’S BLACK CAP FELL FROM HER CURLS AND LANDED BESIDE THE BROKEN LILIES. HER TEARS DRIPPED DOWN HER IVORY AND FRECKLED FACE TO JOIN THEM. SHE’D FAILED TO MAKE ANYTHING BEAUTIFUL.
Thinking back to that moment now, she lay on her back in the grass, watching the tide go out in the sky. MacKenna’s thoughts fall into the star-like eyes of the Princess from MacDonald’s fairytale. Braden had told her one night the book was written about her, but she still doesn’t know if she believes him. Though she hates to read, she has always loved being told stories. Her grandmother’s story has always been her favorite. So many nights, it had been the same conversation,
“I want grandma to tuck me in. Grandma, will you tell me my story tonight?”
Her grandmother laughed, loving the way her blue-eyed granddaughter drew out her words when she was tired. “Again? I don’t know if I can remember it exactly.”
MacKenna had asked her to tell the story so many times, she knows it by heart, and she can sing the little tune exactly as her grandmother had all those nights, it is the closest thing she’s heard to an angel singing.
“There once lived a pretty young lady,
who tended a garden near a tree.
Happily she’d sing to her flowers,
and they’d call it “The Song of Mackie.”
“One, Two, Three, all the flowers grow with me
For (Five, Six) we both know a secret trick:
I whisper to them gently, sing the songs he sings to me.
Then reaching to the roots, His words spring life in every stick.”
She covered her mouth and laughed.” MacKenna would always cover her mouth and laugh as well, just as she did now under the darkening sky. Then her grandmother would tell her not to hide her smile, and gently pull her little hand away from her face. “That’s better,” she’d say tenderly, her eyes appearing to water. Her grandmother’s eyes always looked like she was crying, 80 years of happiness pouring out of her heart, eyes, and touch.
THAT MORNING, AFTER THE BUCKET HAD FALLEN, MACKENNA HAD LOOKED AT THE UPTURNED PAIL, AND THE BROKEN NECKS OF THE LILIES. THE PETALS OF THE TULIPS WERE BENT BACK IN AN AWKWARD KISS. SHE HAD TAKEN THE PAIL IN HER LEFT HAND, AND BEGUN COLLECTING THE SPOILED FLOWERS WITH HER RIGHT, DROPPING THEM IN ONE BY ONE. THE YELLOW TULIP WENT IN BUD FIRST. SHE COULDN’T LEAVE HER VICTIMS ON THE FRESH LAWN FOR ALL THE PARTY TO SEE. “I’LL TOSS THEM IN THE RIVER, PETAL BY BROKEN PETAL.” SHE SWITCHED THE PAIL TO HER RIGHT HAND AND GLANCED BACK AT THE BIG WHITE HOUSE. WITH HER MOTHER OUT OF SIGHT, SHE STEPPED OVER THE HEDGE, A GIANT STEP FOR HER, REACHING HER FOOT UP TO HER THIGH AND THEN HOPPING. SHE HAD TURNED THE CORNER OF THE YARD, OUT OF SIGHT OF THE HOUSE AND STEPPED INTO THE BLACKBERRY- GUARDED PATH. THEIR FORT WAS A FEW YARDS FROM THE CREEK AND ITS WELL-TRAVERSED PATH WOULD LEAD HER RIGHT TO AN OPENING WHERE THE RIVERBED SPREAD WIDE AND SHALLOW. HER AND MADISON USED TO WADE IN HERE TO WASH THE SKUNK CABBAGE THEY USED FOR THEIR MAKE-BELIEVE SALADS.
WHEN SHE REACHED THE SPOT, SHE SET DOWN THE PAIL BY HER FEET, BENT OVER, AND ROLLED UP HER JEANS TILL THEY WERE TOO TIGHT TO FOLD AROUND AGAIN. SHE COULDN’T WAIT TO RINSE OFF THE GRASS CLIPPINGS, STICKS, AND DIRT THAT HAD CLUNG TO HER FEET AS SHE WALKED THROUGH THE WOODS. SHE PLACED BOTH HANDS ON HER HEAD, CHECKING TO MAKE SURE THE BLACK CAP WOULD STAY. THEN SHE GRABBED THE PAIL AND SPLASHED HER LEFT FOOT INTO THE COOL CREEK. SHE INHALED SHARPLY, THEN PLUNGED IN HER RIGHT. TWO MORE STEPS. SHE SET DOWN THE PAIL, HOLDING THE HANDLE UNTIL SHE WAS CERTAIN IT WOULDN’T FLOAT AWAY. SHE GRABBED OUT THE TULIPS, AND PULLED EACH PUNCTURED PETAL FROM THE STEM. THEN, SHE REMOVED THE FIRST OF THE FOUR LILIES. IT HAD ALREADY LOST TWO PETALS, AND THE FOUR REMAINING REMINDED HER AGAIN OF HER OWN DAINTY FEATURES, A GIFT FROM HER MOM. SHE PULLED THEM ONE BY ONE, TOSSING THEM INTO THE CURRENT OF THE CREEK. SHE WAITED UNTIL THE LAST PETAL HAD BEEN CARRIED DOWN STREAM TO A SMALL GATHERING OF STICKS AND TWIGS, AND HELD THERE. THEN, SHE PULLED OUT THE NEXT AND CONTINUED. WHEN SHE’D FINISHED WITH THE FOUR LILIES, SHE BENT HER KNEES AND SQUATTED TO RINSE HER HANDS.
SHE HELD HER HANDS UNDER THE WATER UNTIL THE CHILL WAS GONE, AS WERE THE RIPPLES. HER LONG DARK CURLS REACHED INTO THE WATER AND HER BLUE EYES SEEMED NATURAL, STARING BACK AT HER FROM THE CRYSTAL CREEK.
SHE COULDN’T SEE HER FRECKLES IN THE WATER, AND THE WATER GAVE HER SKIN A COLORFUL GLOW. “I’VE NEVER SEEN SO MANY COLORS IN MY FACE” SHE THOUGHT ALOUD. THEN HER EYES SETTLED ON THE RIVER ROCKS BELOW THAT COMPOSED HER FACE. SHE MOVED HER HANDS SLOWLY UNDER THE WATER AND TOUCHED THE BLUE STONES, THE PURPLE, AND THE ONES THAT LOOKED THE COLOR OF A GOLD FISH. SHE SAW HER SMILE ON THE SURFACE. THEN SHE NOTICED ONE IVORY STONE, STRONGER THAN THE LILIES AND SOMEHOW JUST AS PURE AND ELEGANT. SHE CLOSED HER FIST AROUND IT AND PULLED IT OUT. IT WAS THE FIRST SHE DROPPED INTO HER SILVER PAIL. THEN SHE GRABBED A PURPLE ONE, AND THEN A BLUE, AND ANOTHER PURPLE. SHE PULLED OUT ALL HER FAVORITE STONES, DROPPING THEM INTO THE BUCKET. SHE LISTENED TO THE ROCKS CLICKING ONTO THE PILE INSIDE AND THE RINGING FROM THE PALE, AND SHE HEARD THE REEDS AS THE RIVER RINSED THROUGH THEM, REACHING THROUGH THE ROOTS OF EVERY STICK, EVEN THE TREE THAT BRADEN HAD BUILT THEIR FORT IN. SHE LISTENED, AND SHE HEARD THEM SINGING HER SONG. SHE BROUGHT A FEW OF THE SINGING STICKS WITH HER, TOSSING THEM INTO THE BUCKET AS WELL. THEN SHE PICKED UP THE SILVER PAIL, NO LONGER WEIGHTLESS FOR THE YOUNG GIRL, AND DRAGGED IT DOWN THE PATH, PULLED IT THROUGH THE HEDGE, AND ACROSS THE FRESH LAWN. SHE REACHED THE PATIO, AND CLENCHED THE SILVER HANDLE OF THE WHITE FRENCH DOOR WITH HER WET LEFT HAND, NEARLY SLIPPING OFF OF IT. SHE PULLED AND FLUNG THE DOOR OPEN TO MAKE SURE HER MOTHER KNEW IT WAS A GOOD DAY. HER MOTHER QUICKLY SHUT THE FRIDGE DOOR AND SPUN AROUND TO FACE HER DAUGHTER. AS MACKENNA LOOKED AROUND THE OPEN HOUSE AT THE WHITE KITCHEN, THE WHITE COUCH, AND ALL THE WHITE WALLS, A FAMILIAR FEAR RETURNED, “HOW COULD SUCH COLOR FIT IN THIS HOUSE?” HER FACE GREW PALE.
JUST THEN MACKENNA HEARD LIGHT FOOTSTEPS RACE DOWN THE STAIRS. KOL APPEARED AROUND THE CORNER, STOPPING JUST IN FRONT OF MACKIE. SHE HELD OUT A PIECE OF DENIM. THE METAL PAIL RUNG OUT AS IT FELL TO THE WOOD FLOOR. “MY HAT!”
AS SHE TOOK IT FROM KOL’S OUTSTRETCHED HANDS, HER FINGERS STUCK TO IT’S SLIMY SURFACE. “GROSS!” SHE STUTTERED INTO KOL’S SMILING FACE. KOL’S SMILE FADED AS SHE STARED AT THE HAT IN MACKENNA’S HANDS, HERSELF REALIZING JUST HOW CHEWED UP IT WAS.
“LULU HAD IT. I FOUND HER IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM.”
MACKENNA HAD STOOD THERE, STILL, HER ARMS STRAIGHT OUT IN FRONT OF HER, AND HER EYES INTENT ON THE WET RAG. JUST THEN, LULU, AN 80 POUND CHOCOLATE LAB PADDLED THROUGH THE OPEN FRENCH DOORS, SPOTTED THE HAT AND IMMEDIATELY BEGAN TO WHINE AT MACKENNA’S HANDS. SHE LOOKED FROM LULU TO THE WET, WELL-LOVED HAT IN HER HANDS, AND THEN BACK TO LULU. “HERE,” SHE SAID. SHE PULLED HER HANDS FROM ONE ANOTHER AND THE HAT FELL TO THE GROUND. SHE WATCHED AS LULU SWEPT IT UP IN HER TEETH AND RETREATED TRIUMPHANTLY INTO THE LAUNDRY ROOM.
HAVING WATCHED MACKENNA’S SELFLESS GIFT TO LULU, HER MOTHER WALKED AROUND THE KITCHEN COUNTER AND PICKED UP THE SILVER PAIL FROM BESIDE MACKENNA’S FEET. SHE PLACED IT UP ON THE WHITE COUNTER. MACKIE CLIMBED ONTO ONE OF THE WOODEN BARSTOOLS AND STARED INTO THE BUCKET. SHE TRIED TO TELL HER MOTHER IT WAS NOT THE FLOWERS SHE HAD PLANNED TO PICK, BUT NOTHING CAME OUT FROM HER LIPS BUT A SMILE. WITH HER EYEBROWS IN FLIGHT TO HER HAIRLINE, SHE GLANCED UP AT HER MOM. HER MOM WAS NOT LOOKING AT HER, OR THE BUCKET AS SHE’D EXPECTED. MACKIE COULDN’T EVEN SEE HER. THEN SHE HEARD A SOUND BELOW, AND HER MOM STOOD UP WITH A LARGE VIOLET JAR MACKENNA DIDN’T RECOGNIZE. SHE CLOSED THE CABINET WITH HER FOOT, AS SHE PLACED THE JAR ON THE CABINET BESIDE THE PALE. IT WAS TRANSLUCENT, WITH AN ELABORATE ETCHING AROUND THE TOP THREE INCHES, AND LINES TRAILING DOWN TO ITS BASE. THE ETCHING WAS A DESIGN OF WINGS, STICKS, BIRDS, AND TREES. SHE SMILED INTO HER DAUGHTER’S EYES AND SAID, “IT WAS YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S. YOU HEARD THEIR SONG DIDN’T YOU? DID YOU HEAR THEM SINGING IN THE GARDEN?”
No. It is something more real and more deep in our being than any teaching can quite reach. We need a picture. We need a story, so well crafted in another world that it somehow reaches into the depths of our spirit and heart, and it tells us where we are. I'm amazed by the power of fiction and fantasy. In those seasons, we need the right story to be told us. And somehow, in the midst of being lost in this other world, we learn the lessons and hear just the right words we needed, but could have never known we needed. Those of you who have had this happen, you understand. Those of you who have not yet, I'm not sure I could find any persuasive and eloquent way to open this experience up to you. But I hope to one day write a book that meets you in just one of those seasons, and changes your world. For me right now, it is Alice in Wonderland. Who would have thought that this book of nonsense would speak so much wisdom to my heart? I sat alone in Starbucks, laughing and giggling, over the humor, over the brilliance, over the nonsense, over how much it was speaking to me. She is teaching me lessons I could have never learned from Francis Chan or Watchman Nee. She is teaching them to my heart. 
Though busy, it was a good morning overall. I'm training in the Coffee Masters program, which I love. I love learning about all the process of the different beans, about the different farms they come from, the distinctive regional tastes and traditions. In short, I love to learn the story. I love to learn the story behind a friend. I love to hear the story behind a war. I love to hear the story behind a marriage, new or time-tested. I love to hear the story behind a photograph- or if ungiven, to write the story for myself. And as it turns out, I love to hear the story behind a bag of beans. Where it came from, how it was grown, who named it, what the recipe is, what sort of people might drink it and with what- what stories might it fall into in the future? 
