Hydrangea Hideaway
My nephew Everett had a way with words.
He was two years old when he grabbed me by the hand. “Come on. Let’s go visit the angel garden,” he announced. I wondered what in the world that child could possibly be talking about.
I had no choice but to follow Everett outside. I held on tight as he led me over to a neighbor’s yard and pointed at her hydrangeas. “Aren’t they beautiful?” I said.
Everett’s little face lit up. “Yes and look at all those little wings inside. That’s why they’re called ‘hide angels.’”
Upon closer inspection I saw that Everett was right: The petals did look like angel wings. Hydrangeas. Hide angels. Why not?
—Amber Cooke, Richmond, Virginia
READ MORE: BEAUTIFUL SPRING FLOWERS
Sweetheart Roses, Sweetheart Memory
Every anniversary A.J. and I had a ritual: We wound up our musical roses and swayed in each other’s arms to the tune, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”
It was the first song we ever danced to and remained “our song” for 64 years of marriage.
Just after A.J. died, the musical roses stopped working. It seemed fitting, now that there were no more anniversaries to celebrate. Yet I couldn’t throw the funny contraption away. I dug it out on my first anniversary without him.
I took it out to the porch and tried turning it on one more time. No luck. My sweetheart seemed farther away than ever. I left the roses and went to bed.
I drifted off when I heard a noise coming from the porch. I got up and opened the patio door. Our anniversary roses were swaying along to “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”
It was my first anniversary without A.J., but I wasn’t without my memories—or my roses.
—Olive Samson, Story City, Iowa
Mysterious Planting
Spring meant one thing at our house: flowers.
Every year my husband, Bob, and I planted tulip, daffodil and hyacinth bulbs. We checked the garden every day, waiting for God’s glorious canvas to fill it in with color.
One spring stands out more than any other. I was particularly looking forward to seeing our bulbs bloom. My mother, Viola, had just lost a six-year battle with Hodgkin’s disease, and I was depending on the season of rebirth to bring me solace.
Mom was named for a flower, and I tried to imagine her blooming anew in heaven. But all I could think about was how much I missed her.
“Looks like an uninvited guest sneaked into our flowerbed this year,” Bob said when we went outside to inspect the garden. The determined tulip, daffodil and hyacinth bulbs were stretching their green arms up through the soil, but there was something else I couldn’t identify growing alongside them.
“Weeds?” I wondered. Why this spring? Maybe I was silly to think our flower garden could ever give me peace about Mom.
“Let’s wait,” Bob said. “If they’re weeds we’ll pull them.”
Days passed and the mysterious visitor in our garden grew into a mass of green shoots. Soon I recognized the leaves: Violas! What a beautiful glimpse of heaven and the promise it holds.
—Joanne Larson, Fountain Hills, Arizona
Birthday Greetings
A friend gave me an African violet plant when my father passed away.
I kept it on my desk at the office, where I never tired of admiring its rich green leaves. Those beautiful purple blossoms had been a special present that gave me hope for the future during my time of grief, but it had never bloomed since.
Not that I expected it to. I knew just enough about African violets to know they were notoriously difficult to grow.
The day before Dad’s birthday I watered my plant and thought of him. Maybe if I hope hard enough it will bloom again sometime.
I opened my eyes the next morning with Dad’s birthday the first thought in my mind. I got up and went into the office to start my day. I couldn’t believe what I saw when I arrived.
There, in the middle of all those leaves, was a single purple blossom. Now, whenever I feel discouraged I think of that single purple blossom, and suddenly I’ve got all the hope in the world.
—Jo Donofrio, Westlake, Ohio
A Pansy’s Purpose
I hadn’t expected to see any blooms in the flowerbeds.
The snow and ice from a long cold winter had only just melted. But as I approached, a spot of yellow caught my eye. A pansy. A single pansy poked through the snow.
Pansies were known to grow in winter, even surviving freezing temperatures. But surviving months of snowstorms? This little flower must have survived for a purpose, I thought.
I brought it inside and looked for my tiniest vase. Give it to Kelly, something nudged me.
Well, that thought had come out of nowhere. Kelly was the manager at the pool where I took swimming classes. She was always so kind and thoughtful. I didn’t know her well, but I knew she had a child who died. Maybe this pansy really is meant for her, I thought.
Driving over to the pool I wondered what Kelly would make of my odd present. After all, it was a single flower. And not a rose or a lily. A simple pansy.
I handed it to her at the pool. Kelly’s eyes teared up. “You’ve given me a wonderful gift,” she said. “A reminder of my son’s presence.”
I hadn’t known: Pansies were their favorite flower. And indeed, this pansy had a purpose.
—Mae Cannon, Blanchard, Idaho
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