TheWRITEaddiction.com

My plant is preaching to me. Lest you think I’m completely crazy, let me explain. My two-year-old funeral lily has seven flowers. In October 2012, when I received it there was one bulb.

Most of the year was hum-drum. My husband was working on his degree. My kids were happy and healthy. My job wasn’t in jeopardy, and then all of a sudden in August my father got sick. It was difficult to watch the man who taught me to fight, whither away until he had no fight left in him.

During his transition, I subsisted on coffee and tequila. I’d have one for breakfast and the other for dinner (and sometimes I’m not sure which one at which time.) I was busy making arrangements, making sure he was cared for, corralling my siblings so that we could all say good-bye. His death took its toll on my life.

But now, two years later, I have time to breathe, time to reflect, time to smell the flowers.

And the plant starts preaching to me.

There’s a lily in the valley, bright as the morning star. I remember literally walking through the valley of the shadow and being grateful that I didn’t have to stay there. I remember relatives sharing the story of praying with my father assuring me that his salvation was secure. I remember the only man I’ve ever known to be kicked out of hospice and I say thank you.

And I reflect, because I don’t know who gave me this lily. It sits in my dining room and it, like me, is blossoming. There are seven bulbs, and in my very limited study of Biblical numerology, I understand that it means completion. And I’m reminded of Jesus on the cross, saying “It is finished.”

Yes it is.
But I am not!

I am thankful that my father taught me to always get back up.

Mama Radford