Catching Sunbeams

The afternoon sun spilled through the living room window like golden honey.

Making the air glow and creating a cozy pool of warm delicious-ness.

I watched my three-year-old granddaughter, white-blonde hair a shining halo about her smiling face, as she tried to capture the floating dust-motes in the beam of light.

“Gramma, look!” she said excitedly. “They’re dancing!”

And suddenly, I was remembering another time.

And another little girl . . .

I had just graduated from the Nursery. The place, in our church, of food, toys, warm hugs, and sitting on the floor. Also the room in the basement. With the least amount of windows.

My fellow three-years-olds and I had been guided upstairs and into the sunlit chapel. Then given the gi-normous (expressive/made up word) front pew to sit on.

Don’t get me wrong, we were used to those pews.

But normally we sat on them with our parents/families.

Suddenly that great expanse was ours. Alone.

We were ‘big kids’ now.  

My classmates alternated between sliding about on the polished, golden oak surface and staring at the women in charge of this meeting.

I was seated furthest from those women. And nearest the tall window next to our pew.

The late afternoon sunshine was streaming through.

On me.

For a while, that was amazing enough.

Then, I discovered that there were floating . . . things . . . in that golden beam of light.

Things that danced and swirled about when I waved my hand.

Things that gently, but effectively, eluded capture. No matter how quickly I moved. Or how hard I tried.

While the rest of the kids in the room sang or listened to stories, I concentrated on the little ‘floaties’ so tantalizingly close and so difficult to actually grasp.

Suddenly, the girl seated next to me slid to her feet. I looked around, startled. Our little group was following Auntie Grace and filing out of the room. I glanced one last time at my golden beam of magic, and reluctantly followed.

We were led to a tiny classroom that opened directly off the chapel.

And sat down on chairs.

Real, our-size chairs.

Auntie Grace smiled at us and welcomed us warmly.

Then she said something I’ll never forget. “Diane was playing in the sunbeam during opening exercises.”

I stared at her. Was I going to get into trouble?

She looked at me and smiled again. “Diane, that’s what you are! That’s what this class is! Sunbeams! You’re not in nursery any more. You’re all Sunbeams now!”

I blinked at her, not quite certain what she was telling us.

But I never have forgotten.

Coming Home

In 1973, at the age of nineteen, Husby (to be) departed for France to serve a mission for our church.

It was something he had always wanted to do.

And he had been preparing for it his whole life.

For two years, he wore out his shoes, walking the streets of Paris, meeting people.

Serving.

Growing to love both them and their country.

And then, in an instant, it was over.

His time was done and he was headed home.

His flight was booked.

Letters confirming dates and times were sent to his family, who would be meeting his plane at the nearest international airport two hours from the family’s home town.

All was ready.

He arrived, bag and baggage, at the airport in Paris.

Only to discover that the flight he was booked on . . . didn’t exist.

Oh.

Umm . . .

Frantically, he spoke to the people behind the counter.

No problem.

A new flight was suggested.

A flight that would have an overnight stop in one of the great cities in the US.

And then land in Calgary sometime the next day.

It was his best option.

He booked it.

Now, how to let his family know?

There was no time for a letter.

Overseas calls were ‘iffy’.

A flash of brilliance.

He would send a telegram!

He headed for the telegraph office.

Then, family duly notified, he climbed aboard the plane and relaxed.

Forty-eight hours later, heart pounding with excitement, he waited on the Calgary tarmac until the rest of the passengers had deplaned.

Then, closing the zipper on his bag, he stood and made his way out of the plane.

I should mention, here, that when missionaries come home families tend to get a little over-excited. After all, it’s been two years since they last saw each other.

Definitely justifiable.

It’s not unheard-of for groups of fifty or sixty people to crowd into the airport waiting room.

With banners and brass bands and dancing bears and acrobats and fireworks.

Okay, well, maybe not the fireworks.

Back to my story . . .

Husby was expecting, well, not a brass band, but a bit of enthusiasm.

Some smiles, some laughter.

A few warm hugs.

What he got was an empty waiting room.

Empty.

He stood there.

And blinked.

His warm welcome was a complete frost.

No one was there to greet him . . .

One phone call alerted his family.

And two hours later, they arrived.

And he did get his warm, enthusiastic welcome.

When the excitement had slowed to a gentle boil, they were able to compare notes.

The family had been at the airport the day before as per their original agreement.

They had waited.

And waited.

And finally given up in tears and despair and headed home.

But what had happened?

For the first time – before or after – the telegraph office in Lethbridge had ‘broken down’.

All telegrams had been rerouted to another office.

And Husby’s had ended up somewhere between the two.

Lost in the ethereal world of the wires.

His great once-in-a-lifetime entrance.

Spoiled by the hand of fate.

And a single broken wire.

Sigh.

Each week, Delores of The Feathered Nest issues a challenge for those of us brave (or crazy) enough to participate. The challenge is six little words. Use them or lose them. I've been behind a bit, so for the next few days, I'm playing catch-up.

It's too much fun to miss . . .

Last week's words: instant, telegram, flash, brilliant, zipper and frost