Waiting on Flowers

The deep purple hyacinths and cheerful daffodils were finally ready to be picked. I rummaged under the kitchen sink hoping to find something I could use for a vase. I was pleased to find two glass jars so I didn’t have to display them in an old grape jelly jar and a red plastic cup. I wanted to pretend I was fancy for once, but in reality, an old jelly jar with obnoxious pieces of unrelenting sticker left behind would’ve made me more comfortable. 

My little helpers breathed heavily over my shoulder as I carefully cut the stems and passed them behind my back one at a time. They gently placed each bloom into the water-filled vases holding them close to their hearts like hidden treasures. This was the first time we ever had blooms of our very own to cut. 

Night after night I lay by their little beds singing them off to sleep. Once they were deep in sleep my song turned to tears. My husband’s strong arms would lift me reminding me I wasn’t walking this alone. 

In the early morning, we would tip-toe barefooted through the garden in our pajamas. My little nature boy loved tending to the tender plants. My sweet girl was always hidden in the raspberry bushes unwilling to share her bounty. 

When summer was in full abundance they would hide under the shade of overgrown zucchini plants and draw beautiful masterpieces. They spent afternoons cutting down woody stems of mammoth sunflowers building hideouts and forts. 

My heart ached as I held on tightly to these magical days knowing there was no cure for my need. I began measuring my days with flowers. Each new bloom was a reminder that I made it to a new season. 

My children were so young it was hard to imagine they would remember their mother’s love if they lost me at a young age. My deep thoughts often became dark thoughts that I carried alone. They were much too heavy to ask anyone else to hold. 

On a particularly beautiful Virginia summer day, a precious friend took me around the corner of her house which was overshadowed by tree limbs and various bird feeders. Homes are rarely built like this home anymore. I’m not referring to the sturdy brick ranch, but to the generations that built a firm foundation of faith and love within those walls. 

She pointed out a miniature red rose hidden in the tall grass. She told me the story of a Mennonite family giving them this rose plant when her Daddy died. He went to heaven when she was eleven years old. She remembered her Daddy even in old age. That flower gave me hope that day. 

As our friendship grew so did my love for flowers. I became somewhat of a student of hers learning to notice the intricate colors of each petal while taking to heart the rich wisdom of stories from her past. Her mother’s love and memories were on display through the delicate lily of the valley blooms that faithfully came in early May. She says her mother would’ve loved me like her own. I knew I would love her too. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone that lived before me until this experience. I became part of the family as I breathed in every garden detail from the mint outside the kitchen door to the allium by the mailbox.

I dreamed about leaving such a legacy, but I was hardly a gardener at the time. I decided to start by planting tulip bulbs outside my sweet girl’s bedroom window when we lived in the little house in the country. It was hardly a home anyone wanted to live in for a lifetime but knew I didn’t have a lifetime anyway. If they could even bloom for her once maybe when she saw tulips she would remember me. 

Every morning before the sun peeked over the mountain I would cry out to God to please let me live to see those tulips bloom. It seemed unlikely as my body grew weaker. Breathing became more difficult. The pain in my chest jolted me awake at night. I would shuffle across the living room in the dark multiple times in the night to go give them each one more kiss. I knew it was coming soon. 

In my waiting, we kept planting more flowers. My little nature boy planted a patch of sunflowers in the shape of a heart hoping they would bloom for my birthday. I held on for dear life waiting for them to bloom. I would cry out to God to please let me live a little longer. We happily posed for a picture in our Sunday best beneath those magnificent blooms. 

My husband planted rows of zinnias outside our bedroom window and a field of wildflowers on the hill. Our home was certainly no dream home, but he had a special way of making my dreams come true. I anxiously waited for each flower to open. Lord, please let me live a little longer. I painted my nails red and held each bloom for a picture. The monarch butterflies loved them as much as I did that day. 

Day after day we slipped on our garden boots and darted out the front door hoping to see new growth. We never did get to see the tulips bloom. Providence became increasingly more painful and had to sell our country home. 

We lived at Grandma’s house for a few months as the world was falling apart. God was preparing us for my miracle surgery even though we didn’t know it. Our souls were weary so we picked up a packet of morning glory and zinnia seeds. We continued to plant flowers. I continued to pray. Lord, please let me live a little longer. It was hard to hold back the tears when the first flower bloomed at my own childhood home. I secretly wanted to be there to die. I think everyone knew, but no one was brave enough to say it out loud. I didn’t want my children to be alone when I took my last breath.

Our country home sold and we returned to the beautiful valley we called home. I was much too weak to plant flowers. Winter quickly approached and even the simplest tasks were becoming too difficult. I asked my husband to pick up a bag of paperwhite bulbs to force indoors. I placed some bulbs on rocks and another bunch in the soil. I needed blooms, especially in the dead of winter. Lord, please let me live to see them bloom. Every day we watched and waited for them to show off their beautiful bloom.

Those winter days were some of the hardest days of our life. My husband frantically called the doctor. There was nothing they could do. I started crawling to my children’s bedsides in the night. I often had to lie down in the hallway to regain my strength and wait until the earth stopped spinning. I needed to give them one last kiss. I would get myself back in bed and wonder if this would be the night. I would finally doze off, but awoken by a loving arm checking if my heart was still beating. I’d tell him I’m sorry if it happens tonight.

I longed for heaven and found comfort in hearing about this place prepared for me. I relinquished all my desires and abundant graces were poured out on me. One of my favorite authors expressed heaven as an exquisite garden where I would enjoy freedom from pain and rest with Him. My heart was ready for this exquisite garden with my God, but my family lacked enthusiasm.

The snowdrops were blooming when God provided a miraculous surgery. A stranger saved my life. He took all my needs upon himself. I was content to live or die. I would either wake to long for the lily of the valley to bloom or be welcomed into an exquisite garden with my Healer. My precious friend brought me cuttings of the white coral bells lining her garden walk that year. I don’t think the lily of the valley ever smelled sweeter than it did that day. 

We continue to dig up the earth and plant more flowers. My little gardeners have pots, dishes, jars, and cardboard containers scattered about the house. Somehow their beautiful spirits were stolen by the evils of painful loss. They were given what they desired most, but it required the laying down of the life they loved. Healing is taking more than one season’s blooms so we are learning to wait on biennials and even scarce woodland flowers. 

We are hardly beginner gardeners anymore. My nature boy grows royal poinciana, rocky mountain pine, and maple from seed. He isn’t burdened by the time it takes for that tiny seed to mature. He tells me it wouldn’t be special if it was easy. He simply keeps tending to its daily needs. He gives gentle attention to the broken branches and suffering soil. My sweet girl grows canterbury bells, dahlias, snapdragons, and aster with her Daddy. Side by side they dream together about owning a greenhouse and offering fresh cut flowers. It cheers me to hear the three of them dreaming again. 

The daffodils bloom earlier near our new home. We live on borrowed land so there won’t be fresh-cut flowers of our own this spring. We walk through the woods and discover blooms in the most unexpected places beginning to ascend out of winter’s darkness. My nature boy told me flowers aren’t nearly as special without enduring a harsh winter. With those words, we locked eyes for we realized why the bright yellow daffodils were more abundant and breathtakingly beautiful than ever before.