It would take the prompting from a treasured friend to get me share something I so rarely talk about. Katie Ganshert’s doing a new thing. As a part of her blog hop she has stirred writers to share unique stories of how God brought beauty from pain. Katie’s debut book, Wildflowers from Winter wonderfully portrays this. (I’m looking forward to posting my review in the coming weeks.)
There is something noble in uniting readers this way; something intrinsically spiritual and healing.You are not alone…
***It was a dark season.
Feelings of despair had tangled around my heart, clutching with vine-like intensity. And I still had to carry out my day-to-day routine of raising two young girls. Preparing breakfast, trips to the park, combing hair, baths, and tucking in at night.Carrying on—all while my resolve withered inside.
I was in the midst of a time of great loss, repeated loss. Experiencing hurt like none I’d known before. I was enduring pain I so rarely talk about to this day.As my body bled, I stammered in my faith. I questioned God. I grieved the future I’d imagined for the babies I’d never meet. I took it personally.
I cried so much my eyes felt as though they’d shrunk. And in some ways my vision had diminished. I was dying to self. Dying to my hopes and dreams. It was a cavernous losing season.No matter how many lights I flicked on all around the house early that spring, every room still seemed to evoke a dull, lifeless gray. A muted perception seeped through my every waking moment; mockingly present every corner I turned. I forced myself to attend the MOMS group at our church. I led it. They expected me to be there.
I had no idea what awaited one afternoon soon after I returned from the MOMS group.I busied myself by wiping down the kitchen table, sounds of Blues Clues creating a numbing background noise. The doorbell sounded.
I walked as though in a trance to open the door. A young girl with gorgeous brown curls stood before me holding up a bundle of bright yellow daffodils.
She hardly spoke a word. I spotted her mom, a friend of mine, waiting in the car. I took the daffodils in my hand. My friend gave a quick wave, the girl smiled and spun on her heel, then skipped back to the car. Off they went. I felt as though I’d been dropped in an antiquated silent movie, all but the vibrant yellow flowers in my hand.Then I brought them inside.
I filled a medium-sized vase, then plunked the stems into the cool water. I set the cheery daffodils on the table I’d just cleaned. My girls ran over to me, asking questions. Questions I couldn’t answer because I’d been rendered speechless. Women had lovingly made me meals during this time, sent notes with kind words of encouragement, and continually offered to watch my girls for me. I’d felt loved. But nothing spoke love to me quite like those flowers in my kitchen. They communicated God in a way that nothing else was able to up until that point.They brought color back into my world.
The daffodils reintroduced hope into my wilting belief.
They brought life back.
Today, I’m brimming with gratitude as I carry out my day-to-day routine of raising three young girls. Preparing breakfast, trips to the park, combing hair, baths, and tucking in at night…Blessed be the name of the Lord.
***A complimentary copy of Wildflowers from Winter will be sent to a random commenter. Comment away!****Thanks to Lori Genrich (and daughter) for the impression you had no idea you were leaving with me
**photo by stockXCHNG