Do you ever think: I want to witness a miracle?
This week, my favorite summer flowers bloomed. I had been anxiously watching the blooms spread open day after day. The one, a variety of day lily with a deep red bloom and a gold center, is my favorite color. The other flower, yellow black-eyed susan, crops up in clusters here and there with bursts of bright, fresh color.
I can picture yawns, especially if you aren’t a flower lover. I can’t explain the hope that they inspire in me. Living things grow and become everyday miracles.
Consider this. One spring, I pulled a plastic grocery bag from a peg in my garage and discovered six sprouting tulip bulbs. Forgotten, their green shoots had pushed up from the brown bulb toward what little light that poured in through the garage window. A mini miracle.
Then, when summer ends, the seeds, scattered by the autumn wind, will turn decaying flower heads into summer flower beds next year. Miracle.
Children are miracles like that. My first born child, just seven pounds at birth, is now a 5’9″ brown-haired beauty who turned 23 this week. She went from crying and cooing to college graduate. Every milestone was a miracle.