My daughter and I bought my wife four Peace Rose bushes this past Mother's Day. Oh my goodness, you'd have thought we struck gold. My wife is out with those roses every day, trimming, watering, weeding, and caring. Nearly every morning the breakfast table is adorned with a beautiful full and fragrant bouquet of pinks and peaches. When they are fully bloomed, you can smell them all around the kitchen table. And when I snap a picture with my phone's camera, the flash makes them light up and glow. They are simply glorious, in a way that I'm sure the roses in Heaven probably smell and glow.
My wife puts them in the fridge at night. Because if she doesn't ZsuZsu, the indoor cat, pulls them out of the water so she can drink from the little vase. They lie about on the table all night, wilting. They lose their color and the pedals darken a bit on the edge. In the morning, if you're not careful the pedals will tumble off the stem.
I was looking at just such a display this morning over breakfast. I was admiring how they tried so hard to maintain their color for me. And how you have to get really close, but they still smell sugary and wonderful. I glanced up to see my wife glaring at them with disdain. I'm sure she was more infuriated with the cat, but nonetheless… and I resented her just a bit for it.
I felt so silly connecting so deeply with flowers. Flowers! Not manly plants like oak trees or fire bushes. But pretty little pink and peach flowers. Dead ones, no less. But in them, I saw me. Picked at through these years, from time to time lying helplessly thirsting for more water, Living Water. Resented by a flesh seeking more beauty, more life, more fullness. More. But I hope that when God sees me, this dilapitated leftover, picked at and exhausted, He says, "WOW, all that color! Mmm, and the fragrance! Not dead yet. Nope. Beautiful. Scot, you are just beautiful."
Have a great day, friends. Enjoy.
--Scot
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