I came home from my friend Cindy Cieplik’s inaugural Wellness Table gathering feeling invigorated.  The women  at her table exuded kindness and grace, just the antidote that anyone might gather around themselves if stress threatened serenity.  I entered that space feeling joyful and left feeling that endless joy might be within human reach.

On the table inside our front door on which we routinely toss mail, I found a purple envelope with my name printed across its front.  I dumped my purse and bag, and lifted the envelope, searching my memory for any trace of recognition of the handwriting.  I slipped one finger through the flap and opened it.

Inside, I found a Mother’s Day card from a young woman who has been in my life since she attended my son’s preschool, two years behind him.  Abigail has had challenges for the last seven or eight years.  I’ve been able to help her through some of those, though I often lament that I didn’t see the crisis looming annd help her make choices to avoid some of the more difficult paths she walked.

Her mother, Paula; and Abigail’s older son, Chaska, had stopped by our house on Sunday to give me a card and a little flower that Chaska had made at Sunday School that day.  Paula folded me in her arms and pressed her face against my hair, murmuring her love and gratitude for my friendship.  I found myself clinging to her, letting her goodness wash over me, glad that I had done even one small thing to deserve what she felt for me.  Or maybe that I had done nothing to deserve it but she gave it anyway.

And now, three days later, a card from Abigail herself.  Inside, she wrote that I was “someone who gave more than love”.  I held the card, my hands trembling, my heart overwhelmed with wonder.  I asked myself, How can the little I do, the pittance I am able to accomplish in life, draw this young woman’s thanks?  Day in, day out, I push myself to do more, to be more, to help more.  But for Abigail, in her eyes, whatever I did exceeded what she had expected me to do.  Here she stood, thanking me, while there I stood, chastising myself for not doing enough.

Her words nourished my heart, my soul; they fed and watered the tender shoots of something green within me.  The roots of this new growth have long been dormant but still alive, and with each nourishing gesture, the fragile flower grows stronger.

I put Abigail’s card on my mantel, next to the one from my son and stepson, and the card from Abigail’s parents, and the little flower from Chaska.  In plain sight they stand, where I can see them every day.