The Magical Month

by Donna Poole

Miracles happen every day especially in the month of May.

When I was a child, we folded triangular pieces of construction paper into cones at school to make May baskets we could fill with flowers we found on the way home. We were delighted to discover violets but were happy even with dandelions. We’d hang a basket on a doorknob, often our own, knock or ring a bell, and run, hide, and watch to see the happy reaction the gift brought. Bless moms and grandmas everywhere for expressing joy over dandelions!

We moved from southern New York State to the northern part after I finished fourth grade. Those were my happiest childhood years, but spring crept slowly into that snow belt land. There was never even a dandelion in sight on May first, so there were no May baskets.

I do remember a teacher constructed a beautiful maypole for us with colored streamers. We sang a song to welcome spring and “danced” around the maypole, weaving the streamers together. It was like side-stepping into another world, squinting up into the blue sunlit sky and watching those streamers weave together; I caught my breath at the magical beauty of being part of it.

It was great fun until my mother, who opposed dancing in all its forms, found out about it. She insisted not only was a maypole wrong because it included dancing, but it was a pagan tradition, and I, who had been often forbidden to dance at school, knew better.

I suppose I did know better, but I didn’t regret it even after Mom’s punishment. I was an incorrigible child who seldom repented of a “crime” if there had been any fun involved. And that maypole had been more than fun; it had been a miracle of celebration and community I felt but only vaguely understood at the time.

Isn’t May a month of miracles? Though our late April snow and freeze killed the bleeding hearts, we’re welcoming May with lilacs dancing and weaving for joy. The lily of the valley, our ground cover, will bloom with abandon this month too, as will many other perennials. If children on our backroads want to fill May baskets, they have many flowers to choose from. Just yesterday we passed a field that looked like someone had planted dandelions; it was acres of sunshine.

Sunshine, fresh air, family, friendships old and new, the fragrance of flowers and freshly cut grass are all gifts to me, new from the hand of God who, miracle of miracles, loves even me, His sometimes still incorrigible child.

I don’t like every event of my life, but my Lord, with loving, nail-pierced hands, weaves them together like streamers on a maypole, and when I squint up into the blue, sunlit sky, I catch my breath at the magical beauty of what I can see.

A college friend died of cancer this past year. As he fought his cancer, he told his family, “Now is the time to practice our theology.”

Now John and I say that to each other. My cancer is a bitter life ingredient, and we don’t like how it tastes, but do we still believe God is good and loving? That’s our theology, isn’t it? Yes, we do believe it, despite fluctuating daily feelings, because we long ago learned to judge God’s love by one thing only: the cross. It was there He proved His love for us. It was there He took our sins into His heart, felt the guilt and shame of each one, and suffered and died for us. And then came another miracle; He rose again.

I know Easter didn’t happen in May, but each year May seems like a resurrection of joy to me. I’m glad I’m here to see it, to rejoice in its beauty, and to celebrate its hope, its many miracles. I’m glad for the miracle of the support and love of community. We’re here to walk, to dance each other Home, to weave our maypole streamers together into something better than ourselves.

I’m expecting my own personal miracle any day now. After a week of less than fun tests that aren’t on anyone’s bucket list, I’m hoping to hear I’m accepted into a clinical drug trial at University of Michigan Hospital. They’ve already set up an appointment for me to get my first dose of the drug on Tuesday. We’re just waiting for the drug company’s final approval.

So what if my balance is off and somedays my walk looks more like a stumble? Does anyone know where there is a maypole? Point me to it; I’ll dance! Do you want to meet me there? And Mom, now in heaven and probably dancing for joy herself, will understand.