Dandelions

I dreamed of having a flower garden, with bunches of flowers to smell and enjoy.  My mother had one; her mother had one; all the other ladies seemed to have one.  It looked effortless.  All you do is plant seeds and wait.  The waiting is the hardest part, isn't it?  Oh, and water.  I'll be such a good waterer.

And the Lord gave me dandelions.  At first, I was mad.  This was not what I wanted.  I wanted roses and daisies and poppies, their colorful heads nodding in a light breeze.  Dandelions are weeds.  No one likes them.  I don't like them.  I dug them out of my garden and waited for the real flowers to grow.

And I got more dandelions.  I sat near my flower-less garden and wondered.  Had I done something wrong?  Did the Lord not think I would be a very good gardener?  Why can't I have flowers when everyone else has them?  I was agitated.  But something told me to sit just a little bit longer.  Hush.  Be still.

I do want you to have flowers, my dear.  And these are the flowers I've picked out for you.  Aren't they lovely? I made them, you know.  I knew that you had a big enough heart to see more than what others see.  You can love what others might despise.  You are a gardener.  You are.  You can take good care of my dandelions.  You can love dandelions.

He was right.  I can love dandelions.  And I do.  They make me happy.