Wildflowers

"For aren't the wildflowers along our path
still beautiful in God's world?
Not planted by hand, but by wind and chance.
They grow just as true love should."

Too bad you cannot purchase your favorite variety from an FTD florist.

I wish you could order a dozen online from 1-800-FLOWERS.

I doubt very highly that the street vendor advertising ONE DOZEN FOR $5.99 has any in the back of his van.

And why is that?  Isn't there anyone else out there that adores wildflowers like I do?

Ok, they may have been given a bad name---'weeds' ---but they possess a certain innocent quality, a frail beauty that makes them more appealing than the well-kept, bug-free crimson roses in Mrs. Whittaker's yard across the street.  Planted and pruned, dusted and watered by the human hand, 'the flowers on purpose' seem to lack something...  They lack...spontaneity...inspiration...a carefree dependence on nature.

For who waters the wildflowers?  Who planted them?  And why do they not seem to care if one or more of their leaves have bug holes on them?  (For imperfection, rather than perfection, inspires beauty.)
I used to fear picking the wildflowers along the road during my morning walks---fear of bee stings, poison ivy and mysterious spiders and bugs that would hide among the pestles.  Not so anymore.  Almost every morning this summer, I have returned with a handful of wild yellow daisies, Queen Anne's Lace, purple thistles and periwinkle cornflowers.  I gently trim and arrange them in a vase set aside specifically for them. Their cheery colors, textures and fragrance light up my kitchen better than any stiff, fabricated bouquet could.

I still have to be careful when picking these beauties, for just this morning my finger was pricked. For in every living thing, God was mindful to instill a means of self-preservation.  A rose has a thorn, a bee has its stinger, a bear has its claws and...a wild thistle has its prickly stems.
Wildflowers and I seem to have a lot in common these days.  We're both frail and fragile and depend on God more than ever for our sustenance.  In the morning when we rise, our faces gravitate upwards and yearn to soak up the sonshine.  Still guarded, naive and not wanting to be in a crowd or put on display (but rather left along the side of the road), we want to be used and there for those who need us--the ugly--spiders, insects---as well as the beautiful-- butterflies, hummingbirds--and share our commonalities to reach anyone who comes along our path.

Seasons come and go. The wildflowers will soon be brown and colorless, withered and gone.  But as long as they are here, I will intentionally reach for them and cherish their wayward beauty.