They call her The Pumpkin Lady, those who don’t know the
whole of her. For years, she kept her children occupied in the field behind her
house, and come October the fruits of their labors were gathered by elementary
school children and Farmington families. The aroma of pumpkin, roasted by the
flame of a Jack-O-Lantern candle on Halloween night reminds me of her. But then
again so does the aroma of roasting turkey.
Her name is Teresa Wood; married to Doug Wood, who raised
and delivered the largest turkey to ever fill our Thanksgiving oven; 42 pounds
of home grown goodness. Of course, we thanked the Lord for the life of that
creature as we gathered at our tables that Thanksgiving Day, and for Doug Wood
who fed and raised and dressed it for us. But T was the queen of the pumpkin
patch. And it was T who taught me the beauty of scars.
It must have been mid-summer when she called, decades ago,
and invited our young family to come down and scratch her pumpkins. Stepping carefully
over the golden infant globes, she armed each of us with a sharp knife after we
had selected our own special pumpkins. Teresa showed us how to scratch the skin
of the gourd with the tip of the knife, wounding the flesh, without breaking it
from the vine. Each of my children slowly carved their names into the surface
of their pumpkin. T took Annie’s little hand and guided it, telling her that it
had to be a bit deeper than her little brain allowed her to scratch. “But I don’t
want to hurt the punkin,” Annie whispered.
“No worries, Annie, the pumpkin will survive, and it will be
beautiful.” Teresa reassured her as she helped Annie press the blade deeper
into the thin yellow skin. It began to weep, little clear droplets in the shape
of Annie’s name.
At harvest time Teresa called again, and down we went to
their little farm on Main Street. The kids searched the field for their
pumpkins. We scoured the ruddy earth, all orangey and lumpy and mulchy-ripe with
autumn. Eventually each one of us found our pumpkin, and sure enough, those little
scratched names had grown to beautiful thick scars against shiny orange skin. We
gathered the beautifully flawed collection and gave them positions of honor on
our front porch.
Like mine, Teresa’s children grew up, took wing and flew the
nest, and that Pumpkins 4 Sale sign found a place leaning backwards against the
back of the barn wall while Teresa spent her time repairing small engines and
building snowmobiles in her GreenSneakers Small Engine Repair business, and
running marathons, and biking across the country. Then, a couple Octobers back,
I saw the Pumpkins 4 Sale sign out on the front fence as I was driving home
along Main Street. My foot hit the brake, and I meandered on back behind the
house, seeking my dear old friend. She was there, in her flannel shirt and pony
tail, an army of scarred pumpkins lined up on the patio. All of the proceeds from the sale of her pumpkins were committed to the Encircle House for LGBTQ youth. Each pumpkin bore a
message of love, most of them carrying the words LOVE LOUDER.
“These are amazing, T! Tell me about the message.”
“Actually,” Teresa told me, “the words came from your son. “
Our son, John, lives not far from Doug and Teresa. When Doug
was called as bishop of their ward, a parish-like congregation in the LDS
church, he asked for John to serve beside him as a counselor. One Sunday,
during a time of testimony sharing, John spoke his heart candidly, as he is
blessedly prone to do. The leadership of our church had recently made an
announcement that involved people with same-gender attraction, and it shook the
faith of many. It shattered the faith of some. John addressed the matter in his
words at the pulpit that day, indicating that he was trying to hold on to his
trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, and reminding himself that the solution to
just about everything eternal is love. And in the end, he concluded, perhaps
we just need to love louder.
Teresa and Doug are parents to six beautiful, loving, caring
children. Four of them are what the world calls “straight”, as if to imply that the others are crooked. But T will tell you the beauty of raising
children, and pumpkins, is that each one is fabulously unique, and each has their
place in the patch. I pause for a moment and imagine my friend out there in the
heat of the summer, bent over in her field, scratching words of love on each
tender skinned pumpkin, whispering love to each one, trusting that they will
grow as they were uniquely designed to grow, but each of them bearing scars
that evidence they are loved exactly for what they are.
When John was set apart as a counselor to Bishop Wood, he
felt concern because his faith was not as absolute as he thought the Lord might
want in a leader. But the Stake President used these words in his blessing. “The
Lord has called you not in spite of who you are, but because of who you are.”
And so John wears a rainbow pin on the lapel of his suit, hoping it speaks loud
enough for any visitor who is wounded to feel safe while their wounds heal.
On that day, long long ago, when the master of all that is
love returned to the place where he had been wounded, his closest friends did not recognize Him
until he held out the palms of his holy hands to reveal His scars.
We are, all of us, healed or healing from something or
other. Be gentle.
I am thinking, on this Valentines Day, which coincides this year with the
first day of Lent, that we would do well to ponder the opportunity to
love loudly, and if we already love with depth and passion, then to love even
louder. Speak that love, and if we have to, use words.
As for scars, may we acknowledge our wounds, transform them
if needs be, and then grow. Just grow. And in the process, heal, so that wounds
close up, stop weeping, and become scars that evidence that we know how to love
and be loved.
Here's a sweet little film featuring Teresa Wood and her giant pumpkin-colored heart:
