Windsong

I needed to return and see if it was true. My sudden departure and extended absence left me longing for closure. I hadn’t said goodbye to my childhood home in Jamaica. Up the winding mountain route with its lush tropical vistas, past the vendors of fruit and roadside roasted corn. Over Flat Bridge edged with inches-high stone hemispheres and hung just over the troubled Rio Cobre River. In heavy rains, the waters cover the bridge, but not on this day. Through the cool shade of the bamboo arched Fern Gully roadway to Windsong, Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Ocho Rios, where I grew up. I prayed the new owners would let me on the grounds and was grateful when they welcomed me.

As soon as I stepped onto the property, I knew.—It was You, Jesus, who brought me to Windsong as a child. How great Your loving kindness to place me under the nurturing care of my grandparents. You held my hand. I wasn’t yet a Christian, but I recognized You. Come, walk and reminisce with me, Lord.

You can smell the sea on the breeze, almost see it from the wild cherry tree beside the carport. Grandma used to send me to pick the fruit to make cherry juice, but I filled my fists and belly with them instead. You watched and I think you laughed.

Grandpa didn’t talk much, but when he did, he spoke his mind. He was a hard worker, and when he died, I heard the only thing he owed was sixty-three cents to Stanigar’s Hardware Store. Grandpa watered his Gerbera daisies out front every evening, a way for him to unwind from his accounting job at the Jamaica Inn Hotel. He let me follow and fill his quiet time with endless chatter. One time I found a little bird with a broken wing at the edge of the flower bed. I put him in my apron pocket and tried to nurse him back to health, but he died. Grandpa bent to dry my tears.

I wish I still had that childlike heart. Once I overheard some children at school say I was kind. Lord, help me be kind now.

***

Mornings. The old wringer washing machine’s twin rollers squeezed water out of the clothes and spat them into the galvanized bucket below. Grandma cranked open the opaque casement window. Bright yellow canaries flitted along the rim of the breadcrumb-filled terracotta saucer cotched between the low branches of the mango tree. Their morning melody drifted into the breakfast room. Rich brown coffee bubbled into the glass-knobbed percolator lid. Grandma poured a teaspoon of it into my cup of milk. Grandpa put salt in his coffee and ate his onions like apples.

Fresh-cut hibiscus in a boat shaped milk glass pedestal vase adorned the long maple dining table on the verandah where Grandma taught me to play Scrabble. She was a Scrabble champion; I was three-years old. Whenever I asked the meaning of a word I encountered in a book, Grandpa replied, “Look it up in the dictionary!” I used to get vexed. Now I’m grateful. They raised me with an abacus, Sesame Street, and Mr. Rogers too.

Though a man of few words, Grandpa’s actions communicated clearly. He turned away from me when he thought I spoke disrespectfully of You, but soon he gathered me back to himself. Like Your word says, Lord, “For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee. In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment; but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee, saith the Lord thy Redeemer.” (Isaiah 54:7-8 KJV)

Perhaps Grandma may have overlooked my creative endeavor when she discovered I had painted and written on the walls inside my closet, but never my impertinence. I told her it was my closet, and I had a right to paint it if I wanted to. I’d forgotten that Grandma’s hand had a right to my rear end.

Grandma’s hands. I thought they were beautiful. I traced the green veins under her alabaster skin wrinkled and spotted with age. Those hands disciplined me, but they also served me, and there were always more hugs than discipline. I believe it was God’s love that held me wrapped up and Grandma’s skin. My grandparents’ discipline rarely made me angry, but sad I’d disappointed them and eager for reconciliation. You discipline me too, Lord.

“The Lord disciplines the one he loves.” (Hebrews 12:6 NIV)

“God disciplines us for our good, in order that we may share in his holiness.” (Hebrews 12:11 NIV)

How joyous the reunion when we repent and receive forgiveness and acceptance.

And the gardens. Grandma made flower arrangements for the Jamaica Inn hotel. The kitchen door opened to a banana tree and Grandma’s prized courtyard garden, its walls covered with English ivy. One day, I pretended to be Jane of the Jungle and grasped her ivy vines to scale the wall. Grandma wasn’t happy when the ivy and I tumbled to the ground.

In the backyard, a vibrant array of flowerbeds bedecked the lawn like ornate rugs. African fireballs and ginger lilies. And the big bush with little silver flowers, helicopter flowers we called them, because they twirled around and floated in the air when we let them go.

Orchids hung beneath the ackee tree’s grand canopy; their pungent smell filled the air. My childhood swing stood between the ackee tree and another flower bed. I’d fly above the garden for hours and dream. Later, in my teens, the mountains were my view from another swing. I’d fly up into the heavens and leave my cares with You.

I ran in the sunshine and romped with the dogs. The cats joined in. Thisbe, Grandpa’s Alsatian, and her cohort, Fringes the Siamese cat. Ebony and Negrita, the rambunctious black Labrador Retrievers who ate my toys. Heidi, my Doberman, and her pal Angie, the calico. Heidi let me ride her like a horse. “Down,” I’d say, and she’d sit so I could slide off her back. Sometimes Heidi barred Grandma’s way so she couldn’t reach me when I was naughty.

Oh, the adventures of climbing over rocks covered with periwinkle flowers, and the crimson carpet of Otaheite apple blossoms on the ground. And the secret places—the place between the hibiscus hedge and the June roses where they bowed over. I picked them and mixed them with Queen Anne’s Lace and made a bouquet. I put them in my hair too. I’d march down this garden aisle and pretend to marry my prince. Bougainvilleas greeted us at the driveway entrance. How they danced and waved. Such happy, happy flowers.

Orange trees and tamarind feasts. My favorite pink organza dress—like a frothy tutu. I liked to climb trees in it. Blossom-laden bushes flanked the doorway. Butterflies, hummingbirds, and I drank the sweet nectar from their trumpet-shaped purple blooms. Bauxite-colored tile floors polished with coconut husks back then. Fruit punch-colored begonias festooned the half walls encircling the patio where we ate supper. Percale sheets starched and ironed, crisp and cool, caressed my skin on hot summer nights, and the wind in the trees sang me to sleep.

On Sunday mornings, I jumped into Grandma and Grandpa’s bed. Grandpa turned on the radio to Billy Graham, “Coming to you live from Minneapolis, Minnesota!” and George Beverly Shea singing “How Great Thou Art” and we listened to Billy preach. Many years later, that memory and a Billy Graham magazine helped lead me to salvation.

Then we went to the little stone church with stained glass windows. The one with the Good Shepherd bringing home a lost sheep. I knew the shepherd was You, Lord, and that I was a lost sheep. I wanted to know You but didn’t yet know how. When Grandma and Grandpa went up to the altar for communion, the preacher laid his hand on my head and prayed for me. Sometimes I wonder what he prayed.

After church, we sat in Grandpa’s sun-dappled chair on the back verandah and sang “Once in Royal David’s City” and “All Things Bright and Beautiful” out of his old worn hymnal. This was the foundation, so many years later when we met again, I’d recognize Your voice. Grandpa taught me well.

In the evenings, we sat in the front yard. The gentle murmur of my grandparents’ conversations, the call of the katydids, and the tree frogs’ song encompassed me. And sometimes, in the night’s hush, I’d look up in wonder at the inky-black star-studded skies and marvel at the majesty of God’s creation. I’d ask You questions, Jesus. I desired to commune with You. Now I do, and You still my soul.

I never needed to ask my grandparents if they loved me. They raised me with love and discipline and love again. Oh, what security—a reflection of Your agape love.

Lord, help me love with Your love. To lay a foundation that points others to You.

***

I said goodbye to Windsong, turned, and walked away, grateful for the heritage tucked safe within my heart. I live far away from Windsong now, but I do live near the ocean. You can smell it from here sometimes, almost see it. And the wind—what was its song to me back then, and even now to all? It says: “Jesus loves you, child. He made you, sees you, will find, help, and care for you. Do not fear. Listen for when Jesus calls you, now and later. It is Him your heart yearns for—He fulfills, for He is the way. Listen for when He calls you, child. Listen, listen.”

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Author: Rachael M. Colby

Rachel M. Colby has a heart for reconciliation and a passion to uplift those who serve in tough places. She writes to connect culture's questions with Christianity’s answers, inspire faith, and motivate. She is an award-winning writer in the categories of articles, poetry, devotions, essays, flash fiction, and children’s picture books. Her article The Integration of Oak Ridge (the subject of her WIP) won the 2022 Selah Award for Articles in Print at the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference. She is a longtime member of The Jerry Jenkins Writers Guild and a protégé in the Cecil Murphey Mentoring program. Rachael's work has appeared on the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference Blog, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Christian Devotions, Southern Ohio Christian Voice, Inkspirations Online, in the compilation books Creative Writing Journal: Faith Inspired Writing Prompts & Hope-Filled Poetry, Defining Moments: Memorable and Inspiring Stories from Outstanding Leaders, and The Courage to Write: 62 Devotions to Encourage Your Writing Journey, and in the Oak Ridger newspaper. This Jamaican-born wife, mom, beach bum, artist, and work in progress makes her home in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. She runs on copious amounts of coffee, chocolate, and a whole lot of “Help me, Jesus.” View all posts by Rachael M. Colby