Healing Hearts with Lilacs and Tea

When the knock came, Clara was deep into reading Psalm 34 to an empty kitchen. Those who are brokenhearted are close to the Lord…
Knock-knock.
Clara stood still, her hand on the passage in the Bible and her other hand closed around her mug. She wasn't expecting anyone. She was happy that the neighbours kept to themselves.
She walked toward the door and looked into the peephole.
An awkward man with a huge potted lilac bush stood by the porch. Not flowers. A whole bush. Clara blinked.
He looked through the peephole and gave her a smile.
"Miss Everly?" His voice was soft. "I'm Silas. I think it's yours.
Clara hesitated. No doubt about it; this was from the garden beds at church. This was planted as part of our spring memorial event.
A tiny space was made when she opened the door while the chain stayed locked against it. "That's from Saint Paul's."
He nodded. "I'm the groundskeeper. To honor your mother, you gave away your tested blood. We rolled the metal tube up accidentally when improving the landscaping for the rose beds last week. You might like to replant it yourself."
Clara opened the door wider. About a half year had passed since her last church visit, not since the divorce.
He had both hands on the bush as if it was essential. He was probably in his late forties and had work boots with a rolled-up shirt.
He said I would do so if you'd feel more comfortable if I left.
"No," Clara said. "Thank you. That was kind of you."
A pause. Then, surprisingly, even to herself: "Do you want some tea?"
Silas smiled. You won't hear me say no if you use chamomile.
Together on the back porch, they held their small mismatched mugs and watched the steam drift away. The afternoon light filtered through the oak trees, and Clara watched it.
He looked to the corner of the yard and stopped to point. "That spot gets good light. The plant should look stunning in the lilac."
Clara nodded but didn't move.
"Been here long?" he asked.
"Since October. Once we were divorced, I moved back to live with my mom. She passed last year."
"I'm sorry."
She moved her head slightly and held her mug more firmly. "It's quiet here."
"Sometimes quiet's what you need."
There was an easy silence between them.
Clara glanced at him. How many years have you spent at Saint Paul's?
"Three years," he said. "Started after my brother died. I needed something steady. Something where I didn't have to wear a tie or put on a brave face."
She looked over at her mug. "I understand."
It was two weeks before they saw each other again. Clara returned to church just one Sunday after that.
She sat at the rear, holding the pew as if it could disappear. But nothing terrible happened. No one whispered. No one stared. The cabin reminded her of used books and spring lilacs, and she also chose to imagine those things.
After Wednesday was over, she got up and started toward the side door, barely avoiding a run-in with Silas.
"Hey," he said, startled. "You came."
"I did," said she and added, "I didn't intend to." I just… wondered if the windows could still grab the light.
"They do," he said. The light seems refreshingly new whenever I open the chapel in the morning.
During the next few months, she tried to come back each Sunday. At times, she remained for the coffee hour. At times, she strolled through the garden after that, believing it was only for the flowers.
Trimming hedges, checking earth, and planting seasonal beds were things Silas did when she saw him kneeling by the lilac bush one afternoon in May.
"It's really doing well," he said, brushing the dirt from his clothes. "Certain plants begin to grow better when moved somewhere new."
Clara watched the bush, seeing that its purple buds were just starting to bloom.
"That's ironic," she whispered with a smaller voice. "I used to hate lilacs."
Silas blinked. "Really?"
My husband planted them all outside our bedroom window. The smell seemed like a cage around me. Like I couldn't breathe."
He didn't insist on it or ask about what had happened.
Still, she said slowly, "This one feels different."
Silas looked at her, waiting.
Clara met his eyes. It's possible that it's not the flowers that have changed. Maybe it's me."
—
Tea time with her came about every week. We meet there every Wednesday, always on Clara's back porch.
She explained to him that she edits cookbooks as a freelancer and sometimes tests the food without ever planning to eat it. He told her about his dog Jasper, who was so old he feared vacuum cleaners.
Sometimes, they didn't say much. They just sat.
The porch felt positively sacred—not with good old stained glass—but because there could be sacred silence, too.
—
Clara was late getting back on a Wednesday in late June. A client called overran, and when Silas' wife came home, the porch had Silas on it, with Jasper at his side.
As he entered the room, he pulled out a tin of lemon shortbread and offered it. "Don't get excited. Store-bought."
She laughed, unlocking the door. "Let's pretend you made them."
She paused inside by the kitchen table, remembering where her ex once threw a mug. I could make out the light impression left on the wall by the projectile.
Silas waited by the doorway. He must have sensed it.
I was hitched, too," he said softly. "Long time ago. She left after the miscarriage."
Clara turned, surprised.
He said, "I never share that information with others."
She nodded, her throat thick. Usually, I try to avoid having people enter my world.
And yet, here they were.
—
While the lilacs didn't last through August, Clara continued to spend time in the garden. Early in the morning, she watched bees buzzing over the coneflowers from one side of the brook. The sky looked like a watercolour picture, gentle on all sides.
Silas came into view around the corner with a wheelbarrow full of compost.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
He said, "I was just wondering if I could add a bench right over here." By the lilacs. Something simple. Helps people who require the ability to sit.
Clara smiled. "That sounds perfect."
I couldn't do the wood gathering without your help," he added. "You have good taste."
Her chest started to warm, and she felt embarrassed. "Are you looking to cut down some trees with me?"
Silas laughed. "I guess I am."
—
Clara sat with Silas during the church service for the first time in September.
They sang. They prayed. They listened. Following this, Jesus and the disciples went together to the garden.
The piece of wood was already on the ground, just not yet finished and strong enough. He placed his hand on the top rail as he went along.
"I need to put on the final coating," was his response.
Clara sat down with her hands together on her lap.
"Have you ever wondered," she said, "if healing would be like this?"
Silas sat beside her. "No. But I'm grateful it does."
The wind rustled the leaves that met the skies above us. The sweet fragrance of flowers could be gently smelled all around. This was the first time in years that Clara was comfortable letting herself feel that way without fearing it.
She looked over at Silas and offered a smile.