He speaks in flowers.
The emails from the public library were coming into my inbox. Four books total on hold for me. As I checked them out of the library that day, feet sore from a long day, heart heavy, I felt a twinge of guilt thinking that I probably wouldn't read all four books in a month. School had just started. What if there were other people that wanted to turn these pages and here they may be collecting dust on my shelves for a month? I brought them all home anyways.
My comfy green couch awaited my presence daily after school. I slid into the corner, curled my feet up on the couch with a pillow in my lap and looked at the stack of books trying to decide which one to start with. My mom recommended each one from her book club, but had raved about The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh. That would be a good place to start.
I was more than engrossed after the first page. By the time Aaron had come home from work, I had finished a quarter of the book. In the book, the main character, a foster child, learns the "language of flowers" from her almost- adoptive- mother. As she closes off to the world, she finds comfort in the dirt, the flowers, the earth. She gives flowers to other as messages even though they do not comprehend. She finally finds someone else after years who understands the flowers the way she does. There unfolds a string of heartbreak, healing, forgiveness, and redemption.
When Aaron came home, I broke away from the novel to join him. I let the dogs outside and wandered into our front yard with them.
Here's the part I really wish I could capture with words, but find myself at a loss for them. For weeks, months actually, I'd been coming outside each afternoon and sitting on the bench overlooking our flower garden filled with transplants from our families houses. Irises, day lilies, canalilies, and another smathering of bulbs brought from a fundraiser. Out of the 8 different kinds of bulbs bought from the fundraiser, only 2 had sprouted. It was my fault, I had waited until mid summer to plant them- two months after we'd received them. They were spring and summer blooming. I was a little to late. We had gotten a few irises or day lilies here or there, but since it was their first year with their roots in our grounds, we hadn't expected much.
As they say: first they sleep, then they creep, then they sleep. I would have to wait three years for a real show of our hard labor.
I watched the bulbs daily with faint hope that they might bloom.
I walked out into the yard and stopped in my tracks. Sure enough their hung 2 beautiful white blooms. A few more buds waiting too. I walked over sat down in the dirt and wept. Their fragrance soothing me.
I wept because I knew it was not a coincidence. I'd been wrestling with a few things and that afternoon had pinpointed them in a conversation with Aaron. My feelings of anxiety still had not gone away. I need to hear Him speak. The big white booms were enough for me. Enough to in one split second release every fear. Enough to liberate my soul. Enough to restore breath to my lungs. Enough to restore light to my eyes. I ran inside and grabbed my camera thanking Him over and over for this undeserved gift. He was there. Speaking clearly to me.
It's not a coincidence that I picked up those library books and started reading the language of flowers that day.
It's not a coincidence that I married a man with the last name of Lilley. One of my greatest struggles is worry and I've been able to take on "see how he cares for the lilies of the field," with new meaning and truth that sinks deep down.
It's not a coincidence that on the day Aaron's parents put their dog of 15 years down, that a single canalily bloomed in our front yard and not a single other canalily has bloomed this summer.
It's not a coincidence that my favorite flower in hydrangea and that my mom's friend's garden was overflowing with brilliant, radiant, blue hydrangeas the weekend Aaron and I married on a sunny Sunday in May and I got to clip as many as I wanted to decorate the tables.
I just smiled to myself as I scrolled through our photos on the computer looking for these ones to add to this post, that I came across a folder titled, "Flowers and baptism." It's not a coincidence that on the day of our baptisms, flowers bloomed all across our yard.
He speaks. And sometimes it's in flowers.
My comfy green couch awaited my presence daily after school. I slid into the corner, curled my feet up on the couch with a pillow in my lap and looked at the stack of books trying to decide which one to start with. My mom recommended each one from her book club, but had raved about The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh. That would be a good place to start.
I was more than engrossed after the first page. By the time Aaron had come home from work, I had finished a quarter of the book. In the book, the main character, a foster child, learns the "language of flowers" from her almost- adoptive- mother. As she closes off to the world, she finds comfort in the dirt, the flowers, the earth. She gives flowers to other as messages even though they do not comprehend. She finally finds someone else after years who understands the flowers the way she does. There unfolds a string of heartbreak, healing, forgiveness, and redemption.
When Aaron came home, I broke away from the novel to join him. I let the dogs outside and wandered into our front yard with them.
Here's the part I really wish I could capture with words, but find myself at a loss for them. For weeks, months actually, I'd been coming outside each afternoon and sitting on the bench overlooking our flower garden filled with transplants from our families houses. Irises, day lilies, canalilies, and another smathering of bulbs brought from a fundraiser. Out of the 8 different kinds of bulbs bought from the fundraiser, only 2 had sprouted. It was my fault, I had waited until mid summer to plant them- two months after we'd received them. They were spring and summer blooming. I was a little to late. We had gotten a few irises or day lilies here or there, but since it was their first year with their roots in our grounds, we hadn't expected much.
As they say: first they sleep, then they creep, then they sleep. I would have to wait three years for a real show of our hard labor.
I watched the bulbs daily with faint hope that they might bloom.
I walked out into the yard and stopped in my tracks. Sure enough their hung 2 beautiful white blooms. A few more buds waiting too. I walked over sat down in the dirt and wept. Their fragrance soothing me.
I wept because I knew it was not a coincidence. I'd been wrestling with a few things and that afternoon had pinpointed them in a conversation with Aaron. My feelings of anxiety still had not gone away. I need to hear Him speak. The big white booms were enough for me. Enough to in one split second release every fear. Enough to liberate my soul. Enough to restore breath to my lungs. Enough to restore light to my eyes. I ran inside and grabbed my camera thanking Him over and over for this undeserved gift. He was there. Speaking clearly to me.
It's not a coincidence that I picked up those library books and started reading the language of flowers that day.
It's not a coincidence that I married a man with the last name of Lilley. One of my greatest struggles is worry and I've been able to take on "see how he cares for the lilies of the field," with new meaning and truth that sinks deep down.
It's not a coincidence that on the day Aaron's parents put their dog of 15 years down, that a single canalily bloomed in our front yard and not a single other canalily has bloomed this summer.
It's not a coincidence that my favorite flower in hydrangea and that my mom's friend's garden was overflowing with brilliant, radiant, blue hydrangeas the weekend Aaron and I married on a sunny Sunday in May and I got to clip as many as I wanted to decorate the tables.
It's not a coincidence that on Easter day our backyard overflowed with enough periwinkle bloomed in our yard to fill tons of mason jars to decorate our unusually long table set to accommodate nearly 25 guests for easter lunch.
He speaks. And sometimes it's in flowers.
If there was a 'like' button, I'd have clicked it. But I will have to use my words. Kim, I love your posts and your honesty. It's so refreshing and encouraging.
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