We are a social bunch. Every year our Women's Fellowship likes to entertain the women of our Sister Church, another congregation whose population is dwindling, with a special event. This year it was a Tea.
The theme for the day was "Childhood Memories". The tables were decorated with toys from days gone by. Nutcups were filled to look like ice cream sodas and tricked out with personality-laden paper dolls.
Some of the ladies brought toys they'd received as small children. One woman, a grandma, brought a child sized ironing board Santa had brought her. She found out later that Santa had the same surname as her own father.
One lady brought a tiny handkerchief she described as "only being carried for dress" and recounted stories of the women in her family. Someone else brought a child sized rocking chair. There was a dolly high chair in the room.
Most people shared memories of toys and games. One who marches to the beat of a different drummer brought a doo-dad. She told about how her grandmother would make doughnuts and she HELPED by using this doo-dad to cut out the pastry treats. The look on her face clearly expressed the delight and the devotion she had felt as a child and enjoyed recounting for the group.
Other ladies brought only memories. I anticipated that the memories we'd hear today would all be good ones. This is in part because I had an idyllic childhood. It made tears in my eyes to hear the stories of women whose mothers had died in childbirth, or accounts of mommies who left their children behind by passing away. There were two guests whose memories had been swept away by fires. Their stories, their belongings, their lives, had literally gone up in smoke.
We sang familiar children's songs such as "Me and My Teddy Bear" and "Oh, Playmate, Come Out and Play With Me". We oohed and aahed over the tea sets and dishes, tops and paper dolls that lined the tea tables. We marvelled at the displays featuring doll houses, replete with miniature furnishings. We all nodded when primers and Little Golden Books were trotted out for show and we silently mourned that metal jacks and Pixie Stix are no longer sold in today's marketplace! How times do change!
As the morning passed and we chatted as girls are prone to do over home made cinnamon rolls, fresh fruit, juices, and coffee, I could not help thinking about these women's hearts. I wondered to myself if each person there truly knew the beliefs that live in each of their hearts. Are they living their truths? Are they feeling loved?
Quite naturally I am not privvy to another's "heart junk" nor would I choose to be. I trust that each of these precious souls is at peace with their childhoods. I trust their hearts are healed from any wound that may have been incurred. Furthermore, I pray that none of them ever NEEDS The Healing Codes .