We have a pumpkin on our front porch. I know that doesn't sound all that unusual, but this is one special pumpkin, one highly uncommon pumpkin, in fact one of the most unusual pumpkins I have ever seen. Perhaps there has never been a pumpkin like this one in all of recorded history. Oh, it's not made of plastic or ceramic or wood or concrete or paper mache. It is just a plain, garden-variety pumpkin. Well, it was at least marketed as such when we originally purchased it in the fresh fruit and veggies section at Super WalMart. And therein lies the point of distinction of this strange and wonderful greeter of all who enter our humble abode.
Back in early October of last year Chris began her yearly task of decorating the house and grounds with objects that suggest Fall. In Galveston the actual season of Fall usually only lasts for about two weeks. We tend to go from really hot to not quite as hot to a bit chilly with occasional rain to just hot. Fall usually occurs somewhere in the "a bit chilly" range. As a result we have to artificially simulate the seasons if we are to take advantage of opportunities to accentuate the décor around our three and a half years post-Ike home. So what better way to suggest Fall than to have a pumpkin sitting around on your front porch? And so the saga of the portly porch pumpkin began. A lonely, somewhat roundish orange orb, hoping for a new home, someone who would free him from the damp, cramped quarters of the sales bin at WalMart. Enter Chris.
Rescuing the sad pumpkin seemed no more than another typical trip to the grocery store at the time. But as we wheeled our purchases out to the car, there amid the chocolate milk and honey buns, sat the pumpkin. Now there had been other pumpkins in the past whose lives were changed forever through the traditional carving of a jack o'lantern face. But such was not to be the fate for this particular pumpkin. This year Chris had a nobler purpose in mind for him than simply to be just another ugly face at Halloween. This pumpkin, this year, would be the Announcer of Autumn, the official proclaimer of the Fall season to all who happen to darken the door of the house of Vaughan, 2011. Placed carefully amid the array of greenery already bedecking the porch, the pumpkin fell into his task with gusto.
October and Halloween gave way to November and Thanksgiving. And certainly a pumpkin was still an appropriate adornment for suggesting the season of cornucopias and turkeys. So he stayed on.
And December came, with thoughts of Santa and dreams of snow (for the reality of snow is indeed rare on the tropical island). A chill in the air and occasional drops of rain splattered around the orange one, but maintain his post he did. Green faded to brown around him, but bravely he continued his vigil.
Then came January and February and March and April. Month after month the pumpkin remained, stoically overseeing the myriad of activities that came and went. New Year's Eve. Super bowl party. Grandchildren's visits. And still the pumpkin remained, ever unchanging.
And then one fateful day Cailyn came to visit. She had met the pumpkin many times before, and the two had obviously developed quite a bond of fondness. There were many things the pumpkin shared with Cailyn. Her first bike ride over here. Many walks with slow old DadDad. Hunting for Easter eggs. And sometimes just sitting in the porch rocking chairs and talking about exciting things like tea parties and cartwheels and Scooter and Abby and Mommy in the hospital and Daddy at work. But this day was different. For on this day Cailyn decided to seal their bond.
With that look on her face like she had just discovered the mother lode to the next massive gold strike (that look that young children get often and adults have long-since forgotten), Cailyn jumped to her feet and raced to "her" drawer in my desk. She grabbed a pencil and announced her intention to forever seal the budding pumpkin-child relationship. She was going to write her name on the pumpkin. And write it she did. She does very well with the "C," and sadly, that's about as far as she got. For the pencil, you see, was sharp. And the skin of the pumpkin was thin. And with very little pressure applied the pencil point punctured the frail covering. And immediately there seeped out a tiny bit of pumpkin juice. Not much, but enough for Cailyn to notice, and to react.
She was horrified. "Oh, no," she said. "He's crying. The pumpkin is crying." She consoled it. She hugged it. "It's going to be OK," she assured. "It's going to get better. You don't have to cry." Her motherly instincts had kicked in full force. She insisted that Chris get a bandaid to put on the wound. Of course that pretty much did the trick. They both seemed to calm down considerably once that was applied (Cailyn and the pumpkin).
And the pumpkin wore the bandaid for days thereafter. And that pumpkin remains on the porch to this day, ever vigilant, ever orange. Seven months old. That's one sturdy pumpkin. Three years old. That's one compassionate little girl.
Colossians 3:12-14 says, "Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity."
Father, develop that gift of compassion in Cailyn and allow it to bloom gloriously in her life. Amen.
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