In My Darkness, I Saw Love.
The homemade invitation read: You’re Invited to a Birthday Tea to Celebrate Janet’s Birthday. My mom had artistically prepared that invitation for my tenth birthday celebration.
Bursting with excitement, I raced down the narrow dirt streets of my hometown of La Paz, Bolivia to deliver them to each of my neighborhood friends. The common tradition of enjoying an afternoon cup of tea became special when it included a birthday celebration.
As in most Latin American countries, drinking tea begins at the dawn of life. My grandmother prepared anise tea and poured it into a baby bottle to ease nagging colic in little family members. She grew a myriad of plants, whose leaves she used to prepare tea. According to her, each leaf or herb held special properties to cure any ailment imaginable. Perhaps it was the love she exuded when she handed us the aromatic blend that eased our every affliction. Wearing her white homemade apron over her black wool skirt, Grandma followed her afternoon routine. She stood in the doorway looking out where my younger brother and I played. “It’s tea time!”
Missing this important treat would leave us famished until dinner, which wasn’t served until eight thirty in the evening.
Engraved in my heart are memories of so many afternoon teas.
I can still smell the warm golden bread at the center of the table. Beside it sat a plate of white homemade cheese and a glass bowl of Grandmother’s orange marmalade. And while we sipped our tea, the conversations with her added a special delight for me.
During the school year, once the dismissal bell rang, I dashed out and headed to the corner bus stop. I would wiggle my way through the crowded old bus and sit clutching my book bag, gazing out the window at the activity on the streets. Vendors in their colorful garb sat behind their stands calling out their wares to the crowds who jammed the sidewalks. Then I would elbow my way out of the bus and hop off with anticipation thumping in my heart.
My gaze would travel past the green lawn to the tall building, the only university in La Paz, where Mom worked in the basement cataloguing books. I then darted as quickly as my young legs would take me through the large entrance, pushed the glass door that opened into the library, and headed down the stairs to the basement. As I slipped between tall bookshelves, the smell of buttery pastries wafted straight to my growling stomach. Swinging the door open with a huge grin, my eyes swept through the familiar scenery—my mom and her colleagues’ chatter blending with the pleasant aroma of coffee, tea, and cream. After breaking loose from Mom’s tight hug, my glance darted to the mound of flaky pastries on the table along the wall.
But, as afternoon tea breaks offered moments of relaxation for all, Bolivia’s unstable government and stagnant economy offered scarce opportunities for my brother and me.
Two years later in 1964, while seated in our tiny dark kitchen, it was time for our daily teatime again. With Mom stirring sugar in her cup, I watched as she gazed toward my grandmother and announced her decision to move to America. Grandma set her cup on the saucer with a loud clank, and tears flowed down her wrinkled cheeks. My grandfather, who had lost his lucidness along with most of his teeth, sat in silence, and with shaky hands, dunked his crusty bread into his tea.
After we began our life in America, whether by design or coincidence, I found special moments over cups of tea. When I lost my sight to an incurable retinal disease, my mom and I would sit sipping tea in the cozy kitchen of her condo. She reassured me that I wasn’t alone in my darkness. The aroma of the citrus blend still lingers, as do her words echoing in my heart: God would provide and she would be my eyes.
God did provide.
At times, while the family slept, I sat in silence with a cup of herbal tea pondering just how much He had granted me. His provision included Mom’s perennial assistance, and a renewed attitude, confidence, and determination on my part. With the aid of a computer program that reads the screen, I’m able to string together words of inspiration for those who might need a little light in the midst of dark moments.
As herbal tea comes in a variety of flavors, different types of events also came into my life. When my heart was sliced with pain after losing my 19-year-old son, in the midst of cold anguish, I remember moments of warm comfort. My mom handed me a cup of chamomile tea with honey. "Here sweetheart," she said. "It’s okay to cry. God knows your pain, and He will heal your heart."
Now, as I take the last sip of my herbal tea, I set the cup on the corner of my desk and the eyes of my heart review the scenery of my life and images of my lovely mom, now in heaven, who helped me see the world through the eyes of love.
Let’s Pray
Father, thank you for the gift of love wrapped in a mother’s touch.
How will you celebrate God’s gift this Mother’s Day?
Bonus article on today’s topic.
Janet
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