It was just a flower.
A temporary burst of delicate color and hope.
I smiled, happy at least one of my wildflower seeds had sprouted despite any lack of subsequent watering. The sprinkler nursing the lawn to life must have tossed a few drops in its direction.
I used to smirk at the tradition of giving and receiving flowers. What was the point? Too fragile, too temporary. But that’s like never bothering to smile at someone, or sit down to a carefully cooked meal. Beauty and hope need daily renewing. We forget as soon as the day is done and a new one begins.
It was just a flower, but I kept wandering out to the back of the garage to stare at it. Take another sip of my coffee. Caress the petals and examine them closer. Reluctantly shuffle back inside at the sound of my preschoolers squawking or my husband calling.
But I needed to write. To create.
Whenever I choose NOT to create, to do what brings me the most joy and purpose, it’s because I believe the lie that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t look as solid as making money, or cleaning or learning something new on the Internet. As doing some other mundane task that yields immediate, predictable results. But that doesn’t stop God.
The Original Creator.
How many flowers sprout, bloom and die without anyone ever seeing them?
But God goes on creating, splashing color over the plains, sprinkling delicate newness between all the hard rocks and trees.
In a weird way, the little surprise flower in my yard feels like permission. A reminder that if the Ultimate Creator doesn’t just bring to order a utilitarian world, but one of evanescent beauty pointing us to the solid, eternal one, then...
creating in the way I know He made me to is never a waste of time.