On Finding Flowers

It's just begun to get warm in central Illinois -- just jacket kind of weather. The grass is still mostly that dead brownish-yellow of winter. So, a few days ago I was surprised to notice what looked like a couple purple flowers in the middle of my yard. I didn't have time to go investigate, but I've noticed them the last few days as I've whizzed this way and that.



It's also been a rocky week emotionally. Mostly, it is because I took a risk earlier in the week in a family relationship. I had actually gone back and forth for over a month about if asking this particular thing of this person was "wise" or not. On one hand, I knew it would sting emotionally if it didn't turn out the way I hoped. On the other hand, I thought that if I didn't try, didn't ask, I would always wonder. In reality, I would be shutting the door as surely as the "No" I feared.



With a prayer, I sent my request via email. I tried to think through all the things that might be a hindrance and addressed them upfront. That was Monday. I waited all day and then on Tuesday and Wednesday. Finally, I got the response Thursday late afternoon. It was what I had feared -- a "No."



Part of me says, "At least I tried." The other part of me says, "But it hurts!" I've batted it all back and forth all weekend. And as I drove home from church, I found it creeping in again.



As I came out of the garage, my attention turned back to those flowers. I went over to have a peek. They were indeed purple flowers, but to my dismay, they were plastic. Fakes. Finding flowers when you least expect it seems fun. Finding fake flowers, well it's just a bit of a bummer!



This afternoon I had a shift at the bookstore. A woman walked up. She was wearing glasses. The skin above her glasses and eyes was all red. I was about to comment, "It looks like you got a bit of sun on your face." Luckily, God stilled my tongue. And she began, "I know you probably don't take returns, . . ." I tried to say that we did, but she pressed on. "But there are extenuating circumstances." I pulled a book on multiple pregnancies from the crumpled sack. "I miscarried yesterday," she said. The redness was not from sun but tears.



My manager was standing right there at the time. We both assured her we would take it back. But she wanted to look at something else perhaps about miscarriage but she hesitated too. My manager took her to the right section and helped her find a book, . . . .



It just puts it all in perspective. Does the response I got still hurt? Yes. But I cannot imagine losing a child or perhaps more than one at once.



And as for the flowers I took as an affront upon finding they were fake . . . . Well, no one put those there to fool me. In fact, the idea of there being purple flowers there was kind of fun and an encouraging sign of spring -- of things yet to come. They added a dash of color to a dreary landscape. Even if they were not real, I can be thankful for that and the reminder that spring and summer and real purple flowers are coming.

The One Who Waits

It was one of the hardest aspects of the job. It had to be done, so I did it but I hated it. Every Wed. morning I would get to the office early, go in and grab a car seat, and head out to pick up a little 2 1/2 year old. He was always excited to see me. I would pick him up and transport him back to the office for a visit with his mom.

You see, I spent several years working in foster care. It's a high stress job with little pay. But most people do it because they believe that some of the most vulnerable in our society need protecting.

Supervising parent-child visits came with the territory. Hence, the early morning trek to pick up this little guy. On good days, we would arrive back at the office and I would watch him and his mom interact for two hours (awkward but necessary) and provide helpful direction (typically ill received) when needed.

But the bad days came more often than the good days. We would arrive back at the office and settle in the waiting room to wait for mom. More often than not, she didn't show. After 30 -40 minutes, I would help him back into his coat and return him -- sobbing -- back to the sitter. It always broke my heart. How could she not come? She only got 2 hours a week with her son.

The foster parents actually had to reroute to avoid driving by the office. As sure as he would see the building his hope of seeing his mom would rise and then plummet when they didn't stop. He would begin to wail.

I confronted the mom (and the many others like her) on missing the visits. She was flippant. He was little. What did he know? And then came the excuses: missed the bus, got up late, forgot, just couldn't make it and couldn't bother to call. With permission, I finally instituted a policy for her and other parents that routinely missed visits. If the visit was at 8:45 AM, she had to be there before I left to pick him up. It meant she spent half an hour waiting, but it spared that little boy the sheer disappointment he felt when she didn't appear.

I've been thinking a lot about those foster care days. When ever I have a recurring thought, I think it is God's way of reminding me of something. In this case, I am reminded of how eagerly God awaits our time with Him. He doesn't miss. There aren't any no shows on His end.

And when I miss, I think He has all the disappointment (maybe even more) of that little guy.

And I am convicted that though I know the importance of regular time with my heavenly Father, I take it too lightly. There is an errand to run or someone to call. I wake up late and have to rush to get out the door. I always promise -- tonight I'll make time. But then the evening comes . . . . It's so easy to over look it in the business of life.

Here is to a renewed commitment of daily time with Him. He's always waiting for me and you.