Blossom Time

They teased me with their bowed heads, their delicate petals facing toward the ground. Several times this week I have gone out to the same dahlia bush, my faithful bloomer, with red-and-black shears poised, ready to cut the stems for my bouquet. Yesterday, I paused in front of the bush, examining its readiness for display in my cobalt blue vase. I perused the  tightly closed buds, the coral petals tucked inside the green stems. The early summer sun, a phantasm in Oregon, reigned in the cornflower-blue sky, giving me hope once again. I just needed to be patient. The flower simply required a bit more time, I thought. Maybe a little more nourishment.  My gaze swept the cloudless sky and I sighed into the comfortable atmosphere. Just like me, I pondered. Those buds. It felt like God was up in one of those skywriters, those airplanes that write messages in the sky, the engine exhaust spreading the missive high in the air for added emphasis. I curled my mind around the epistle, allowing the graceful message to adorn my heart. I think God sees me just like those buds I am eager to pick for myself. When I close up tight it gets awfully difficult to open my eyes, the first rays of dawn becoming me to rise, to glorify. I snuck a glance at the sky once more. Yes. Even when I am not quite ready to release my hold, He stays right by my side, tending to me, grooming me, fertilizing the deepest part of me. An elongated sigh caused my shoulders to drop an inch.  Practicing patience, I placed the shears back in the drawer, trusting that in its own time, the coral bud will surely transform into a beautiful blossom.