"Oh, look!" I say to him. "Look at those colors. Pinks, purples, whites. What's your favorite?"
"All of them," he says, eyes glowing, a-light.
"And look," I continue. "Look at the green, green grass up against those colors." I point at the impatiens glory marching along the front of the chicken coop.
"I could jump and shout!" he says, grin cracking big. And so saying, Little Schrock, my blue-eyed, suntanned Child of Summer, gives two happy hops.
We're lying on our backs on the trampoline, gazing at clouds overhead and watching for planes. He's found two already. Flipping over, we're feasting on colors, eyes really seeing the red, red tomatoes on the white picnic table. The green, green tree that spreads above. The brown of its trunk and, of course, those flowers, all splashing joy.
I'm sitting at my favorite spot, coffee mug nearby. I've told her of heat. Told of fatigue and uncertainty that fill my days. Of doubts creeping in, peace leaking straight out. It's hard to keep walking with legs like jelly, landscape full brown. And when the spirit's dried up, how does one write?
She listens. She hears. She speaks, life words, throwing ropes to the drowning. And she, praying, sees.
Sees my path, lined with flowers. Before the drought has broken. Before the rains have come. Before the spirit's full restored. There, she sees flowers.
I lift the pen. And write. Words not mine flow. Through my spirit, dry, He breathes, life flowing through pen to screen, then on in ways mysterious, spelling it out in ink on paper. Life words, throwing ropes. And she sees...
Sees flowers. A message slips in, twinkles diamond like in her inbox. "A very good article. Everyone should read it." A stranger (a gentleman) has spoken.
"I sent it to my family in another state." And, "It was read in our church on Sunday." And, "Someone cut it out and gave it to me." And, "I'm an Amish woman. I just wanted to call and say we're huge fans. That drought column...your humor...thank you." Then this, to her great surprise, in the evening paper.
She catches each one, holds the bouquet, lifts it up. She feels His smile, sees an Artist's touch in the colors bright and lavish. Knows the Gardener's still at work, breathing life. Even in drought.
And you, dear friend? Are you, too, finding flowers along your way? If not, may I pray that He'll send some, just for you?