By: Darrelyn L. Tutt

Her soul is hidden and tucked away, coming out in unexpected halting intervals.
Sylvia …
I watch for her, listen for her, and assist her in the most aggressive manner possible, enjoying the tidbits of reality that yet compose her aging mind and body.
She is here with me one moment … and lost the next. Her worn hand holds readily and steadily to mine;
Her whims, wants, and trials articulated without a word, through understood body and facial inflection.
She is vulnerable and as a child:
Devoted to mindless tasks,
And obsessed by fragments of fleeting imagination.
She speaks of her deceased son and is consumed this day with concern over his grave-marker.
I know what will settle her and it’s mine to give:
“Let’s take a ride, Sylvia, just you and me,”
I suggest.
She is quieted immediately by the suggestion … and something akin to a "child's face at Christmas” meets me.
She enjoys the ride immensely and shares the details of faded neighborhood gossip from
years gone by with me. For a moment I’m an enlightened guest welcome to privy confidences and sworn to the highest secrecies.
And then …
The memories of neighbors fade and a mother’s mind is consumed with the grave-marker of her deceased son again.
It’s a beautiful cemetery, peaceful and conducive for meditation and reflection.
I help her out of the car and she leans into me, entirely invested in the sacred stone which has garnered her concern. We wipe off the marker and my presence withdraws itself by a few steps in order to respect a needed privacy.
She prays silently several moments, makes the “sign of the cross,” and then reaches for me.
She points to a little naked hole in the ground and is bothered by the missing “pinwheel” that has been "robbed" from her son’s site.
The little pinwheel is a creative colorful reminder to her of her son; the wind blows through it and her eyes see him.
I like the visual idea immensely.
I hold her hand and suggest we replace it … and the “child face at Christmas” appears again. We make our way to a local Dollar Store and I pray that a pinwheel can be located.
Wonder of wonders, there she blows.
Mmmm ...
A delightful box of rainbow colored pinwheels meets my eyes, and God be tenderly praised. I give Him thanks.
I select a neon green one and blow on it upon my exit from the store and the beautiful face of a joyful aged mother, in the passenger seat of my car, nods an affirmative “yes” with the “thumbs-up” sign.
“You did good,” she says.
She holds my hand and we drive silently back to the cemetery together, engaged in our own private thoughts. We return to the stone and the small pleasure of a “colorful pinwheel” adorning her son’s grave is given to her.
She asks me to blow on it, and she is satisfied, consoled, and quieted.
Sylvia …
There are things we do daily to show love,
Sometimes the cost is great and sometimes the cost is small,
But I think the thing that’s most desirable, in the end, is a combination of time and thoughtfulness.
When we love fervently and not dutifully,
Creatively and not condemningly,
Spontaneously and not sparingly,
The colors of a pinwheel emerge beautifully.
Christ gives us a whole box of pinwheels.
He loves us deeply so that we will love others colorfully.
Purchase a “pinwheel,”
And love another ...
"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends ..."
1 Corinthians 13:7-8

*The true name is hidden in the anonymity of "Sylvia."