Excerpts From: The Messenger |
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Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you must come see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. "I will come next Tuesday, " I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call. Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and so I drove there.
When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren, I said, "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!" My daughter smiled calmly and said, "We drive in this all the time, Mother." "Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears, and then I'm heading for home!" I assured her. "I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick up my car."
"How far will we have to drive?" "Just a few blocks," Carolyn said. "I'll drive. I'm used to this." After several minutes, I had to ask, "Where are we going? This isn't the way to the garage!" We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the daffodils." "Carolyn," I said sternly, "please turn around." "It's all right, Mother, I promise. You will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience." After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church.
On the far side of the church, I saw a hand-lettered sign that read, "Daffodil Garden." We got out of the car and each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path. Then, we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped. Before me lay the most glorious sight. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns-great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow. Each different-colored variety was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue. There were five acres of flowers. "But who has done this?" I asked Carolyn.
"It's just one woman, " Carolyn answered. "She lives on the property. That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well-kept house. A frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory. We walked up to the house. On the patio, we saw a poster. "Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking" was the headline. The first answer was a simple one."50,000 bulbs," it read. The second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman. Two hands, two feet, and very little brain." The third answer was, "Began in 1958."
There it was, The Daffodil Principle. For me, that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than forty years before, had begun-one bulb at a time-to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top. Still, just planting one bulb at a time, year after year, had changed the world. This unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. She had created something of indescribable magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.
The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principles of celebration. That is, learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time-often just one baby-step at a time-and learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time. When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.
"It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Carolyn. "What I might have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five or forty years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years. Just think what I might have been able to achieve!" My daughter summed up the message of the day in her usual direct way. "Start tomorrow," she said.
It's so pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson of celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask,
"How can I put this to use today?"
. . . Author Unknown
Many of you have heard me tell my story of the starfish that have been washed up on shore and this honeymoon couple that throw them back in the water one at a time. This story I just shared with you conveys the same principle.
How many of you have ever heard of Edward Kimball or Henrietta Mears? Think hard! Well, without Edward Kimball, there never would have been a Dwight L. Moody, the great evangelist of his time. Edward Kimball was a shoe salesman, who worked at a shoe store in Chicago and shared the gospel with young Dwight, a fellow sales-man. Dwight responded to the message, and ultimately went on to be the greatest evangelist of his generation who was able to reach millions of people. And, Henrietta Mears? In 1928, she taught a Sunday School class at the First Presbyterian Church in Hollywood. Of the people she influenced, 400 went into full-time Christian service. Among them was Billy Graham. I believe so strongly in the power of one. Our lives can make a difference.
The fact is that God can do a lot with a little. Are we willing to be like the Daffodil Lady, Edward Kimball or Henrietta Mears? Are we willing to do what we can, where we are, with the influence that God has given us? I leave you with this thought …
Never underestimate the power of one, never underestimate the planting of one daffodil.
May God give each and every one of us the willingness and the desire to be like the unknown heros. May God richly bless us and our endeavours.
Best wishes, your friend and pastor.
Pastor Samuel King-Kabu
I awoke before dawn at my campsite under the pine trees at Burlingame State Park in Rhode Island. It was Sunday, the last day of my three-day cycling weekend. My wife would be finished at her conference by 15:00, at which time I was to phone her and give her directions to come and pick me up. I had until 15:00 to ride as far as I could. It was for this reason that I was out on highway U.S. 1 in the dawn mist of 06:00.
I had thought that if I could reach New London, Connecticut by late morning, I might have time to take a quick ferry ride over to the western tip of Long Island, New York, and still be back by the time Sheryl would come to get me. Alas, this was not to be.
The highway continued westward through Rhode Island pretty much as the evening before. I was riding along the wide, paved shoulder of a four-laned, divided highway, which the state fathers considered a bike route. Indeed, this was the only through road heading to the west. Not too far along, I came to a smaller road heading off to the seashore and to a point jutting out into Long Island Sound. I had a decision to make: Should I continue west and try to make New London, or should I abandon this notion and enjoy the quiet road and the seashore? I chose the former and rode straight on into the town of Westerly, the last town in Rhode Island. At the entrance to town, the "freeway" finally dissolved into the town's main street. When I stopped briefly for some breakfast, the restaurant was just opening.
I would have missed the crossing into Connecticut if I had not been looking for it. The main street descended a sharp hill into the older, historic section of town. There was a small bridge over a tiny, fifty-foot wide river, and then I was in the next state. I did not come to the 'Welcome to Connecticut' sign until I was leaving town, to the west.
At once, there was a long, serious climb. By the time I reached the top, inching along at a pace hardly faster than one could walk, the bare minimum to keep the two wheels upright, I could see out over the whole countryside behind me. All the lowlands were still covered in mist.
Over the ridge and then down into Stonington did the road lead me. No longer was U.S. 1 a major artery; it had now reverted to a narrow, two-laned country road. The traffic had all been shifted over to the Interstate. West of Stonington, the highway more or less paralleled the shoreline. To my immediate left were the main-line railroad tracks of the high speed trains between Boston and New York. These electric trains would come flashing by with almost no warning.
Mystic Harbor was next, a typical, quaint little New England waterfront town. The old waterfront section, with its antique drawbridge, was awash with tourists.
Another hard, sharp climb followed. It was clear to me by then that I would not be taking the ferry to Long Island that day. When I came down on the far side of the bluff, I had the momentary thrill of hitting 50km/hr for a few, brief minutes. Once at the bottom of the hill, I proceeded to get totally turned around. I had been worried because my road map showed the Interstate as being the only bridge across the wide river before me. I feared there might not be any way to get across to New London by bicycle. I finally found a policeman who was kind enough to direct me to the well-hidden bike lane approach for the massive I-95 span over the river. From the top of the span, I could see the submarine base upriver and the massive 'Electric Boat' works downriver, where they built the submarines I found my way down to the Ferry Dock of New London, but it was almost 13:30 - too late to take the ferry to Long Island. I located a nice, waterfront park where I might wait for Sheryl and then rode carefully over the route she would have to take through town to find it. Armed with my notes, I rode on out to the municipal beach. At 15:00, I called Sheryl and gave her the directions. I knew I would then have at least another hour before I had to head back into town. Sheryl was happy that my directions had led her right to the spot, along the waterfront of this strange city that she had never visited before.
It had been a nice, three-day ride, despite the 'highway' experience in Rhode Island. I was looking forward to my third ride of the season, to begin in just a couple of weeks: Down the West Coast of Ontario.
(The story will be continued in subsequent editions of the Messenger. Accounts of earlier bike rides can be found at http://rogerkenner.ca/Bike/Bike.html)
Roger Kenner
Web Page prepared by:
Roger Kenner
& Jette Blair.
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