Free Wynn in the Willows by Robin Shope Page B

streams of gold reflected off the cove. In the distance, a great egret broke from the trees and elegantly skimmed the waters, scattering the light. Then she knew. Those were her jewels.
    When she climbed into bed that night, her dad asked her about the bird she dug up in the yard.
    “How did you know?”
    “You are never far from my sight. I watched you from the kitchen window.”
    “It’s sad. But you said you buried hope. There was no hope.”
    “Ah, you are wrong. There was plenty of hope. You just didn’t know it.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You know what a sparrow is?”
    “A plain bird.”
    “Right. It’s very small. All brown. Just a little of white on it. It’s not rare or endangered. But if just one sparrow falls from the sky…”
    “and dies…”
    “And dies, God knows.”
    “And that is hope?”
    “Yes, that is hope. God is concerned with even a small sparrow. He is much more interested in you, and me, and your mom, and Aunt Roxie.”
     
    ****
     
    What made her remember after all these years?
    The wind whispered and carried a long ago message. A face came into focus. There was desperation in her dad’s eyes. Fear made her afraid to listen, afraid to look, afraid to know the truth. Wynn pressed the bridge of her nose to hold back the tears.
    No, she couldn’t walk around the house to look for the lace curtains in her bedroom window. It would be wrong to snatch a flower for pressing. Her time had passed. It was someone else’s turn to make memories here.
    A tune began to play in her head. Once she knew the words by heart, but now they eluded her. The last few words came; “true to death, true to death, true to death.” Why would she know this song?
    Wynn put the car in gear and turned north. She’d go where the woods and bog were thick enough to hold her together. There was work to do. Look ahead, not back. Maybe Roxie’s words were right after all; her life was in her future not her past.
    The bog was peaceful among the black spruce, which grew on the carpet of sphagnum moss, a selfless spot on the island; a place for regeneration and biodiversity of sometimes misunderstood life forms—like her.
    There was a healthy plant community of bog, cranberry, rosemary, and leather leaf. She cut and bagged them. Later, in her lab, she’d measure their nitrogen levels to compare with the lake samples. Perhaps this would help prove her thesis of water/plant balance.
    It was peaceful among the black spruce which grew on the sphagnum moss mat. There were sedges, pitcher plants, and common orchids in the mix, but not a single Calypso. A bullfrog gulped his throaty call, and then became quiet, leaving only stillness.
    The setting reminded Wynn of the time her uncles dropped her off at Bible camp as a young teen. Instead of falling in love with Jesus like everyone else, she fell in love with His creation. The first few days were so overwhelmingly wonderful that it made her cry her eyes out. Everyone thought she was homesick, but Wynn had found her calling.
    Wynn sat on a decomposing moss-covered log. The air was damp. She leaned back. Creation was not designed by man, but by a Master artist, having carefully chosen the right palate of colors; fair-haired yellow, cinnamon brown, deep pumpkin, lobster red, kale green. Diverse creatures found this place utterly enchanting—a place that man would term as their ‘habitat’. This was the fabric of her life; nature designed and executed by a Supreme Being Who cared about details. But was He the God whom Roxie and the other women worshiped? Was He the Supreme Being she learned about at Bible camp?
    At times Wynn thought believing in God would make things easier. Things could be explained away by saying, “It’s in God’s hands.”
    Wynn wanted to talk to God, but didn’t want to fold her hands. Folding hands meant one was serene and content. She was neither. She didn’t want to pray. She wanted to talk. “As You know, I am not religious, so please