Windows and Ivy

There’s a saying that all things in God’s creation have their uses. However, my long and unhappy history with the poison ivy plant puts this theory to a severe test. I’d successfully avoided it for several years, but on Labor Day, poison ivy caught up with me. (Note to energetic readers: never come home from the mountains and decide, “I think I’ll put on shorts and work in the yard for the rest of the day!”) As a result, I’ve spent most of this weekend in the house, legs covered in gauze bandages, staring out of the windows. It’s been a thrilling time.

Yet, there are consolations. The main one is the view from these windows. We are fortunate to live beside a farm, and everywhere I look, I see beauty. Cornfields slope and swirl around the low hills. A tiny stream runs through the valley beside the neighbor’s farmhouse. Cattle graze on the hills, almost lost in the tree line.

From the living room, I can look out at the front porch, and the trumpet vine that blooms on the trellis. At times, a hummingbird whirrs in front of the red flowers. The vine leaves wave and flicker, and the dancing silhouettes fall on the carpet. In the second floor study, I peer through oak leaves, just catching a glimpse of the pasture below. Out on the highway, cars scurry by, full of people coming and going in a Sunday whirl.

Were it not for this poison, I’d be out there too. I spent most of yesterday stewing and grumbling to my husband about my miserable luck. How was I supposed to do all the vital things I’d planned for this weekend? What about vacuuming the floor, washing the cars, and, most importantly, shopping for shoes? (I really do need new shoes.) Instead, here I was confined to the house, changing gauze dressings and trying not to scratch. My husband, who is especially wonderful when I’m sick, listened to my whining, cooked dinner, bought more Calamine lotion, and helped me with the gauze.

Today, however, as I look out of the window at the sunlight sifting gently through the oak tree’s leaves, yesterday’s concerns seem less important. What is my rush? Shoes and cars will wait. It occurs to me that lately I’ve been too hemmed in by my own walls, whether inside the house, driving to work, or running errands. There are worlds just outside the window, but I do not look. Now, I have to look. “Be still,” my heart and mind say together. “Be still.”

When God closes a door, He opens a window indeed.