Three Scarves

Ginny Warner, Free Images

One end of the scarf I wear during my walk works loose from its shelter inside my jacket. The fringed edge flaps freely in the March breeze, igniting the memory of another scarf from long ago.

A silky, flowered one worn by my mother while retrieving clothes from the line. An equally breezy day in my mind's eye . . .

She tugs her coat closer about her, hurries to unclip a pin, drop it in a bucket, then continues the ritual as I watch from the porch step. With the click of each wooden pin, comfort wells up within me. The simple soothing sound . . . the sight of my mother, ever faithful to her domestic tasks. Present.

Arm loaded with a basket of air-freshened clothing, Mama sweeps past me in a bluster. When she pushes on the door with her hip, the aroma of chicken and dumplings wafts outside, enticing me to follow. The cozy kitchen is Mama personified. I breathe deeply its treasures.

Later, Mama pulls me close to her side for a bedtime story about Jesus and His love for me. Her wind-whipped face smells woodsy as she lowers to plant a kiss on my cheek.

And I'm off into dreamland, only I'm not dreaming, merely reflecting on another scarf.

One wrapped around the head of a Muslim woman, faithful to Allah, yet precious in the sight of the one, true God. A new friend, led to me by Jesus, my Savior, who longs for her to know Him.

So, I tuck in my scarf and remember . . .