My sister, she hands me a hostess gift, a glass jar housing a hyacinth bulb and I take her present into my hands, thank her. I tell her I think there is a story here as my gaze studies the cream-colored stringy roots visible through the clear glass. I snap a picture as a reminder, turn it just so, positioning it toward the bands of light slipping through the wood blinds in the kitchen. And I wait.
I walk by the budding flower like a child on a treasure hunt, searching for clues, looking for those creative hiding spots. For a number of days I examine the twisting, lengthening roots, marvel at the fragrant buds showing off their glorious aroma, spilling out like expensive perfume into the kitchen.
As if waking up from an unsettling hazy dream, the kind you have trouble shaking off all day, I think about all the hate roaming this country. Like a slithering snake it is, invading our living rooms, our news feed, a child's tender ears. I inhale deep of that scented offering holding court right there on the counter. It isn't long before I understand the message this glass vase is speaking, and I ponder the simplicity, the veracity, it trickles down into the bones, ideal nourishment for all the doubt and fear. A healing balm for the discord and discontent threatening that still peace of the soul.
And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love...
Like the rich scent of my hyacinth bulb, we too can be fragrant offerings for one another, flooding the heavens with courageous acts of love, of kindness and acceptance. Tracing the stars with tenacious humility. And I can almost feel the vapor of God's radiant breath as He joyfully watches us put into effect that which He sent us here to do.
A flower only truly fades once its spent itself, sharing its beautiful with the world.
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