Pondering Hope in Everyday Moments
My potted roses are almost ready to bloom. In addition to the red roses, the pink, rose, gold, and coral-colored roses (not pictured) are also ready to pop. Most of them will bloom all summer, but they will never again be as beautiful as they will be in April.
I can’t wait.
My roses were still in bud when I went out of town last week. Coming home, I found them in full flower. They will continue to bloom all summer, but they will never be as lush and extravagant as they are today.
There’s something almost magical about the garden in spring. I want to cling to the beauty, but I know it will eventually fade into the heat of summer.
I refuse to grieve. I think heaven will be like this, only it won’t pass away.
Just above freezing, the air was crisp and clean this morning on the way to Mass. There was some fall color, but most of the leaves on the pecan trees had fallen. Still, it was a scene of serenity and beauty as I pondered the scene in silence.
I was so grateful to have the freedom to go to Mass and worship, and I prayed for all the beautiful young men and women who have died in too many wars to guarantee that freedom. May they rest in the glory of the beatific vision.
“Listen to me, my faithful children, and blossom like a rose growing by a stream of water.
“Send out fragrance like incense, and put forth blossoms like a lily. Scatter the fragrance, and sing a hymn of praise; bless the Lord for all his works.” (Sir. 39:13-14, NRSV Catholic Ed.)
I love this passage from the book of Sirach. God seems to be saying that I can be more than I am in the present moment, more than I can desire or even imagine. This resonates in my heart, and I believe it is true. I want to be like the rose or the lily that gives off a lovely fragrance to the world. I want my life to be a hymn of praise that blesses the Lord who made me and who sustains my life.
At the same time, I am aging. I see an old woman in the mirror. I am not as strong as I used to be. There are more years behind me than before me. Yet my desire to become something more is as strong and vigorous as if I were a young woman with my whole life ahead of me.
St. Therese of Lisieux wanted to be a saint, and at the same time, she was realistic about her limitations and her situation. She didn’t think she was made of the stuff of great saints (although it turned she was), but she believed God would not have given her the desire to become a saint unless it was possible for her to achieve that goal.
I can’t compare myself to St. Therese, but I may still have something beautiful to offer to the world. I may still have some unopened petals, but in order for them to open, I need to remain near the stream of running water. For me, that stream is the mysterious life that flows from the opened side of the Savior, from the side of the one who gave his life for me so I could have life, so I could be life in myself and for others.
At the end of my life on earth, when my last petal has fallen to the ground, I hope to enter into a greater life, an eternal life with the Lord who has loved me so dearly in this earthly life of preparation. I look forward to being with him forever in that abundant life – ever fresh, ever radiant, ever blessed.
Back in the mountains — after the evening rain, everything was shining in the sun this morning as I took my walk. The weeds were knee-high, hiding the subtle beauty that is easy to overlook.
I’m always on the lookout.
Every year, one of my potted arrangements outshines all the others. This year, my favorite pot is planted with Snapdragons, Marigolds, and Lobelias.
Alas, the magenta Calla Lilies (center back) and the pink Calibrachoa (back left) have finished blooming.
Gentle Reader, only God is perfect.
Yesterday, I worked in the garden until mid-afternoon. The heat of the sun made rivulets of salty sweat run down my face. I was too busy, too driven, too absorbed in my tasks to enjoy the day. Finally, satisfied with my labors, I retreated into the shade of the house to rest.
In the evening, I was drawn to walk in the garden. Suddenly, I was in Eden. I understood why God liked to walk in the garden in the evening. There was something about the soft evening light that made the colors of the blossoms and leaves so intensely vivid. The air was cool. Day was almost done.
There was beauty.
My husband recently received a thank-you card decorated with pressed flower art. I liked it so much that I cut out the flower arrangement and pasted it to a piece of card stock to make a bookmark. Then I thought, ah ha! Everything is coming into bloom in the garden. What a perfect time to take up a new hobby! I can save my cherished blossoms to enjoy when spring has passed and make home-made note cards. So I ordered a flower press and bought a how-to book. Pressed Flower Art by W. Eugene Burkhart Jr. was extremely helpful. It was a little pricey, but well worth it. The book included an abundance of colored photos and detailed instructions on everything I needed to know to learn this charming art form.
Yesterday, I filled my new flower press with blossoms, leaves, and stems. Today, I am going to press some blossoms and herbs into an old phone book. Now, all I have to do is wait for them to dry.
That may be the hardest part.
Spring comes late in the mountains where I spent the weekend. I took my camera wherever I went, but nothing was blooming. However, the Ponderosa Pines satisfied my desire for natural beauty, as they always do.
As I was leaving town, the local herd of elk were gathered along Hull Road. Very polite. They paused from time to time to let the cars go by. Many more were grazing along both sides of the road as I carefully continued on my way. There must have been 60 or 70 of them altogether.
Back home in the Rio Grande Valley, the violas and lobelia were in full bloom. Thank God for spring!
The garden is starting to wake up for spring. As I took this picture, it occurred to me that my chair is the most important feature in the garden. There is no point in having a garden if I don’t take time to sit in it.
As I enjoyed the intoxicating warm breeze, the birds provided a symphony of trills and chirps. I read some poetry from Dancing by the Light of the Moon by Gyles Brandreth. (Thank you thetinypotager for the recommendation several months ago.)
Fifteen minutes in the garden was all it took to completely reorient my day.
I am drunk with beauty.
Contemplation Garden 