Wade
and I have moved back into my house in the Ormewood Park neighborhood of
Atlanta, two blocks from where we lived before.
This
is the home that received a house blessing from my church, was graced by two
visits of my mom from California, witnessed the end of one relationship and the
beginning of my present one, was blessed by two loveable and loving golden
retriever/Labs, Calvin and Hobbes, and offered hospitality to overnight guests
such as John McNeill, Henri Nouwen, Erin
Swenson, and Rick Ufford-Chase, then the Presbyterian
General Assembly Moderator. This house also hosted parties, including a
reception for MCC friends visiting Atlanta for General Conference.
The
year I served MCC San Francisco, it sheltered my friend Jim Mitulski whenever
he came to Atlanta while serving as MCC’s regional elder, becoming also an
office for him and administrative assistant Ritchie Crownfield.
During
that time I jokingly called it an MCC “safe house” because of the occasional
MCC pastor or denominational leader who stayed here when visiting the city. At
MCC gatherings I would sometimes have people tell me with a smile that they had
stayed in my “cute little house.”
This
house then welcomed my former partner in recovery and subsequently others in
transitional periods of their lives. All “loved” the home it provided them.
I
longed to return, not so much because of the house itself, but because of its
placement overlooking a green ravine and creek with long-lived tall trees,
which I see from my home office windows whenever I look up from my laptop as I
write this. Sitting on its small deck to do my morning prayers feels like being
on retreat.
But
I had forgotten about the ladybugs.
As
a child, the only bug of which I was neither afraid nor annoyed was the
ladybug.* It was small and cute and round and red and landed unthreateningly on
me or a plant or surface. It would not be until I was an adult that I learned
how beneficial they are to the environment, happily consuming plant-devouring
aphids. I also learned that, possibly for that reason, they are considered
lucky or a good omen.
Every
time a ladybug has landed on me throughout my life, I have smiled.
As
I moved some boxes into the attic space off our master bedroom, I remembered
about the ladybugs. Just as Tippi Hedren discovered birds in a similarly tight
space in Hitchcock’s The Birds, I
found dozens of far-less-threatening ladybugs—all dead. I remembered that this
was, for some unknown reason, the place where ladybugs come to die.
A
few make it inside the house itself. By our bathroom sink I have turned more
than one ladybug off its back and onto its feet in a vain attempt to prolong
its tiny life. Adjusting the pillows on our bed, I have been careful not to
hurt the occasional ladybug crawling on our headboard. But I have given up
opening window screens to free ladybugs who find their way inside.
Maybe
it’s the sky-blue color of our house that attracts them. Maybe it’s the warmth
in colder months and the coolness in hotter months.
Maybe
it’s the same thing that attracts us and all who have found hospitality here, a
welcome to be what they are and a welcome to become what they will be. Maybe
they come here to die because they know they will be left alone; they will not
be squished or sprayed or swatted or shooed.
They
only make us smile, but not without regard for their passing.
Didn’t
Jesus say something about ladybugs? “Not one shall fall to the ground without
God knowing”?
*I
didn’t realize then that butterflies were “bugs”!
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Copyright © 2017 by Chris R. Glaser.
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