The Amen of Nature Is Always a Flower (O.W. Holmes)

We’re talking about favorite flowers and gosh, how do you choose? I love flowers. I prefer them growing, either those that I plant, those in other people’s gardens, parks or wildflowers on the sides of the road. Like the “Newcomers” in the movie, “Alien Nation”, watching cut flowers die can be depressing for me. I’d usually rather something else since they are longer-lived gifts, (unless it’s candy, which has a very short life!) But that may be sour grapes; I haven’t received a lot of flowers in my life.

Jillian’s post on Tuesday made me think of a certain bouquet, one I never saw. She talked about the beauty of white flowers, and I agreed that they are special.

A number of years ago a priest who had been a friend of my family had a sudden accident which left him lastingly injured… and he was not taking it as well as ‘a man of the cloth’ should. He decided to go back home to The Netherlands, to his parents, for his 25th anniversary to the priesthood. Since he was so far from his parish family and feeling ‘down’, we decided to send flowers to his real family, to let them know that he had people who were close to him over here, and that we were with him in spirit.
Nothing seemed right in the leaflets and books that our local FDT affiliate showed me. My mother had dealt with that particular florist for many years; the man was very creative, as something my mother insisted on was ‘uniqueness’, (hence my name!) I said to him, “Mr.D., we’re going to tell people in HOLLAND how to do flowers?” That made him laugh, as after all, the Dutch are famous for their cultivation and propagation of the world’s finest flowers. I said, “How about if we wire an amount to them, tell them to go with it at their discretion, just to make it of as many types of all-white flowers as they can?” He said that it sounded like an excellent idea; he’d give them input and that the money should go quite far there.
When the priest came back to America with a fellow parishioner who had traveled with him, they both had great things to say about the flowers. “You didn’t think to take a picture?” I asked. I got sheepish looks. “No,” said Father P., “but they made my mother cry.”
I have often wondered how beautiful the arrangement must have been to make a Dutch woman, who had even lived in the exotic beauty of Indonesia, cry.

I wished they’d have thought to take a picture.

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