Early Sunday mornings I take an hour’s walk before church and often find myself pondering my many blessings. This Sunday—Mother’s Day—I had a lot to be grateful for. My daughters had both sent lovely cards, one from Arizona, the other all the way from California.
Back when my daughters and I lived in the same place the girls used to bring me flowers. How I loved seeing my daughters at the door with a bouquet of fresh blossoms just for me.
Of course I knew the girls didn’t love me any less now. They never forgot me on Mother’s Day! I just missed the joy of receiving flowers. God, I know I’m being silly, I thought, pausing at the corner of Verona Avenue and Marietta Street. It wasn’t the gifts that made Mother’s Day special. Help me focus on how much I’m loved.
At this corner I always turned right. I planned to do that today, but then I stopped. What was this funny impulse to turn left? I turned my head in that direction, but I didn’t want to go up the hill by the bowling alley. My hour’s walk was plenty enough exercise without an uphill climb. I ignored the impulse and continued on my usual route.
Half an hour later I was back at Verona and Marietta. This time I heard the whisper of a directive: Walk up the hill to the bowling alley. Strange, but how could I resist?
At the top, by the bowling alley parking lot, a splash of color caught my eye. Scattered on the ground were dozens of long-stemmed flowers—red carnations, yellow tiger lilies, green ferns, purple forget-me-nots. Almost as if they’d been left there for me. My daughters never forgot me on Mother’s Day, and my God didn’t either.
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