Some of us are wilting for want of a Covid-free and hassle-free holiday, a proper time away from our oh so familiar homes, our troubled shores. A place in the sun, no less, reliable sunshine, that is.
Although there is beauty, refreshment and restfulness to be had closer to home than you might think. We English (or any other nationality, of course) roses can shine right here, right now, as we glow with the light of Christ, and have our beautiful flowering.
You might consider yourself to be more of a weed or wildflower, invisible to most, a person on the margins, not especially prized, perhaps. But wherever you are, and whoever you are, you are far from invisible to God. He watches carefully over all your seasons of flowering and growth.
Because wherever you and I might live, we can bloom right where we are planted. We can have a spiritual flowering any moment, any day, any season of the year we might be in. We only need to be willing to follow God’s timing.
“A flower’s appeal is in its contradictions — so delicate in form yet strong in fragrance, so small in size yet big in beauty, so short in life yet long on effect.” — Terri Guillemets
Flowering I observe how each rosy-pink of these growing buds slowly begins to open up, and fill with moisture, like rain-saturated tea cups, which turns them into spreading, pale, creamy, dark pink dotted petals, as if they are covered in measles. While the lush green leaves expand, stretch themselves to accommodate each spilling, fragrant froth of flower in its opening up, as they try to gather more chlorophyll greening into themselves from light in their veins. This lovely rose bush has her face uptilted, as if she is smiling at the sun, welcoming its warming touch, giving life and heat and energy in which to bloom where she is planted, here in this space. And I wonder if I am similarly receptive to the light shining within and without, as ready to stay rooted for months, patiently waiting for my turn in the sun, my flowering to come. © joylenton
“Earth laughs in flowers.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
Poetry Joy 