Gentle Reader,
Chit-chatting with my online friends and trying to ignore the headache pounding behind my eyes. It’s Kate. It’s my people, my group. It’s a: gift.
Go.
I look out the front window. My eyes rest on the rose bushes climbing the weathered wood trellis. They reach toward the sun, canes shooting this way and that. Heavy heads sway back and forth, up and down in the breeze. Bright pink, full flowers mingle with darker fuchsia. Shy buds hide within deep green shields, waiting for their turn to burst forth in showy display.
This is a gift.
My parents passed on a love of plants to me. Oh, I can’t rattle off a list of names of the flora that crosses my path when I take a walk. In fact, I can’t name very many plants by sight at all. The love they passed to me is less…clinical, I guess. Less about lists and terms and more about an appreciation for beauty.
My mom put potted petunias on the porch steps every summer. My dad took care of the rose bushes. (One sprung up in the middle of the lawn and he left it there just to bug my mom). Snapdragons and tall, willowy grasses grew just beyond the fence. Around the corner from our house, wild lilacs filled the air with their delicious, heady scent.
There is something so refreshing about nature. I feel connected to God when I’m digging in the dirt. There is a sense of accomplishment when I pull weeds. There is pleasure in putting together a bouquet.
The softness of the petals. The sting of the thorns. The glorious shades of color, never perfectly matched by paint.
God’s special gift in a tough world.
Stop.
