Last Sunday afternoon, a friend (who knows much more than I ever will about all things growing and flowery) helped me pick out some lovely pink geraniums to plant around Kristen's tree. I want her tree to look beautiful on her birthday. I've kept the geraniums in their pots outside to "harden them off" (don't I sound like I know what I'm talking about?!). They've handled their move from the greenhouse well. During the day they sit in their pots around the tree. At night, they rest in the safety of the front porch. I've had moments when thinking about this little project has made me feel better and others where I've been reduced to tears over it. Nothing seems to avoid the grips of my grief.
I feel a little like those geraniums. Those pink blooms have to withstand the wind and the rain of a wild springtime in Kansas just as I have to endure the unintentional sting of someone's ill-chosen words, the eyes that look at me as though they don't understand why I'm still sad, and the purposeful silence that makes me feel like people don't care. I suppose these plants gain strength from the sheltering they've received thus far, just as I have been strengthened by the gentle kindness of a silent hug, a knowing look, or the spoken words of genuine care and concern. And the very few who are courageous enough to step into my grief and walk with me a while, those who don't mind crying with me, they are what God provides to sustain me. One day I will bloom, too. It's just going to take some time.