Aromas

May 2, 2019

Some people turn up their noses; as long as it’s not too close, I breathe in deeply, inhaling the pungent aroma that says, “Spring is here!” Linda and I went to town this afternoon to pick up a few gifts for our Cuban friends, and we could smell it as soon as we pulled in the driveway. The skunks are awake and looking for juicy grubs and worms. When Linda opened the front door, our dog Emma, who usually is whining and jumping to greet us, instead bounded out the door and across the backyard, barking and baying for all she was worth. Fortunately, she never catches whatever it is she is chasing, and we just keep our fingers crossed, hoping Mr. Polecat doesn’t catch her. It would only happen once. A snootful of skunk spray is a lesson not soon forgotten. 

Scents and aromas have an uncanny way of embedding themselves into our souls. A few years ago, they were drilling gas wells in the swamplands between Gerry and Sinclairville, and every time we drove by and caught the fragrance of gas in the air, I was immediately transported back forty years to when we were first married and living in Alma, NY. It was old-time oil and gas country, harking back to when the leases that dotted the hillsides were run by huge one lung gas engines with sucker lines radiating through the woods to the surrounding wells. Even a slight sniff of that gassy air conjures up images of friends long since gone, and times of youthful joy. 

Rudolf Horton was one of the old-timers. He and his wife Helen ran the only general store/post office/gas station/apartment house I’ve ever seen. Their own living quarters were paneled in solid cherry taken from trees he had harvested from his land. Rudolf had a pronounced limp from the tuberculosis that ate away the ball of one femur. X-rays showed the bone narrowing to a point that ground into his hip socket, but Rudolf never complained, and was always ready with a pithy saying as he leaned across the counter of his store. “If wishes were fishes, we’d eat ourselves to death,” is the one that comes most readily to mind.

Although we only lived there five and a half years, I can dredge up more stories about the people whose homes and lives stretched along the two valleys that intersected in that little hamlet than anywhere else. The people of the little church I served there saw it as their mission in life to get young pastors started, and they did it well. When I review the sermons I preached then, I can only shake my head in amazement at the grace with which they endured my early efforts. Sadly, the church closed some years ago, effectively denying a future generation of would-be preachers the education I received as I cut my ministry teeth in that place.

See what I mean about aromas? That spring-fresh fragrance of skunk reminded me of the summer sweetness of the gas wells, and immediately, I was transported to another time and place. No wonder God calls the prayers of the saints a “sweet-smelling aroma;” our prayers remind God of his promises, reaching into the depth of his heart even as aromas do the same for us.