Story Warren

Kindling Imagination for Kingdom Anticipation

Impromptu Picnics

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On a warm Saturday afternoon, our ten-year old neighbor from Italy stopped by. He’s lived in our community for several years, and I often enjoy chatting with him. He and the rest of the neighborhood gang were taking a break from playing soccer to have an impromptu picnic. One kid brought strawberries, another grapes. My husband cooked hot dogs, and I picked cherry tomatoes.

With skinned knees and disheveled hair, these kids sat on the grass, flattening its blades. Soon they bit into grilled hot dogs and munched on juicy strawberries. They ate plump grapes and cherry tomatoes. As we gathered together, there was a sweet stillness and calm. There was connectivity. There were laughs and stories from soccer.

Just when everyone seemed content—at the moment I might have opted for a post-lunch nap—several of the kids hopped up, ready for another game of soccer. That’s when this sweet boy asked if he could linger a bit longer on our deck—to enjoy the olive tree and the fig tree—because they reminded him of home. As we sat on chairs overlooking the garden, he asked if I could tell him the names of all the other plants . . . the Crepe Myrtle, Lace Hydrangea, Ligustrum, Mountain Mint, Oak Hydrangea, and Viburnum.

I then listened as he shared stories of Italy. Of his grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Of silly pranks at the end of long days. Of delicious meals. Of the house he loved, and of the endless rows of olive trees, staggered to soak in the sun. These were stories that I loved hearing. And stories that he loved telling. They shaped my day and filled my heart. They carried me through the evening. 

Good stories are like that, aren’t they? Like a traveling companion, or something that makes us smile later in the day when we think back on it.

When the kids showed up in our backyard for an impromptu picnic, I could have been too busy. I could have been ashamed that I didn’t have enough food, or the right food. I could have wished that I had gone shopping or had been able to plan for a picnic. But I followed the lead of these kids. I welcomed their strawberries and grapes. I opened the fridge and found hot dogs. I noticed the tomatoes ripe on the vine. I joined them in the grass and smiled as the clouds reflected in their eyes. Would I ever have this chance again?

I thought of Mary Oliver’s Invitation:

            “Oh do you have time
            to linger
            for just a little while
            out of your busy

            and very important day
            for the goldfinches
            that have gathered . . .”

Oliver expresses that taking time to linger is for our delight and gratitude. She sees being alive as a very serious thing with grand possibility. 

Indeed, it is.

As I rehearse this memory in my mind—of strawberry-stained chins and mustard grins—I’m grateful. Grateful for our garden and for the grass. For those who spread joy and goodness. For kids who pause soccer games to have impromptu picnics (and include me in them!). For humble offerings of strawberries and grapes, and for how light the load can be when we share it together.

Not every day in our neighborhood is like this. Not every day begins or ends in joy. Sometimes the days are long. Sometimes the needs are great. Somedays the kids don’t get along and we don’t have hot dogs in the fridge. But God always supplies what we need.

Colossians 3:15 encourages my heart. It calls us to be thankful. To allow the peace of Christ to rule within us. To live lives of gratitude.  Mary Oliver is right. Being alive is a serious thing. It’s miraculous and full of wonder. And it nudges me to step away from the busyness of life, to simply linger. To notice blades of grass. To see clouds dancing in the eyes of children. To watch cherry tomatoes ripen on the vine. To hear the old stories again.

Featured image by wirestock on Freepik.
Jocelyn Flenders
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