Skip to main content

The art of flower gardens

(This is a post I wrote almost two years ago! After spending a great deal of time weeding my flower beds, I decided to repost it.)

Lately I have really missed my grandmother. She died 7 years ago and was like a second mother to me. I miss her smile, her bright eyes, the way she would look at you and hug you when you left her house . . . I miss you Grandma.

My grandmother had the most beautiful flower gardens I think I have ever seen. I remember walking around in my grandparents' back yard surrounded by hanging flower pots, half-barrel flower gardens and beautifully manicured beds, one with a fountain in the middle. As a child I would imagine I was in a walking garden in a European country. I do not even remember a weed in sight . . . I think there was so much beauty there, that a weed dared not to spoil it.

Now, as an adult, with a house and flower beds of my own, I think back to my grandmother and her flower beds differently. I LOVE to garden . . . I love to plant flowers and watch them bloom. I love to plant new bulbs in the fall and, in the spring, I wait impatiently for them to come up and show their beauty. For me, this ritual makes me think of my grandma and I feel closer to her, like she is still with me some how. I work very hard on my flower beds, but in the end, they do not come close to my grandmother's. I am beginning to realize that growing flowers and having beautiful flower beds is an art. For my grandmother, the dirt in the beds was her canvas and the flowers her colors. They were placed perfectly on the canvas and nurtured until they created a beautiful ,breathtaking scene. Each year she would paint a new scene similar to the last. The colors amazing, the artist's touch, beautiful.

Thank you grandma for the beautiful pictures you created that are forever in my memory. You were truly an artist.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Gift (Our NFP story) Part 2

(You can read  Part 1 here

     So, by the time Andrew was 18 months old, we knew God was saying no to having more children at the time.  And, as mentioned before, He provided so much peace about it, that we knew we had discerned correctly.  Yet, even with that peace, I had to mourn the fact the we might not ever have any more children.  Yes, we were still open to life, of course, but from the time after Andrew’s birth, until today, we practiced NFP faithfully to avoid pregnancy.  And it took time to accept that we might not have any more children.  There were times when I would hold a friend’s new born baby and then go home and cry because I knew I might not ever know the joy of holding my own baby again.  We live in a community where life is celebrated and families are large.  Usually more than one friend is pregnant at a time.  In those early days, each pregnancy announcement was met with great joy for the friend, but often left me with an empty feeling.  I understood, in many way…

The Gift (Our NFP story) Part I

(I started writing this post months ago, but have not had time to refine it and finish it.  I have felt the need to hit "publish" lately though.  Maybe it is because Hope is too quickly approaching 12 months old and my desire to share it's sentiments would be lost soon. Or maybe it is because this week is the March for Life and the sacredness of life is before me in a precious little girl and I want to remember that, in words, here.  But whatever the reason, here is our story of seeking God's will and and being open to life.)

Shortlyafter we announced that we wereexpectingbaby Hope, I felt that I needed to share ourNFPstory.  Partially, it was because we had so many people say thingslike, "What a miracle!" or share stories of how people they knew were infertile, adopted and then had a baby of their own, thatI feltthat many people probably got the wrong idea about why we had three boys, waited a while and adopted and then found out we were expecting a baby wh…

Two Years Ago . . .

Two years ago today, I was on the other side of the world.  I woke up too early.  Too excited and anxious to sleep.  My husband and I lay in bed, chatting about the day ahead of us.  After years of hoping and praying, the day that felt like it would only ever be in my dreams, was finally here.  It was really real.  And when a dream comes true, and you are in awe of God changing hearts and moving mountains to bring you to a moment, there is little more to do than to pray and praise.  And so, we moved our conversation from our hotel room to the Catholic Church across the street.  Yes, in a land where so few have ANY belief system, God saw it fitting to place us in a hotel that just happened to be across from a Catholic Church.  And so we knelt in the back, as the faithful in the front, finished what must have been the rosary, and prayed.  We prayed our own silent prayers as our ears were filled with the melodious sound of a rhythmic prayer in Mandarin.

As we crossed the street to head b…