About a week ago, I shopped at my local nursery to purchase an array of beautiful blooms. Soon, I spooned moist and musty soil with specks of white from bags of green. Digging holes to make room for roots, I pushed down plants to fill old pots tip to top, pressing sides, carefully. Like an assembly line, it was the same for each variety. One, two, three, carefully….
My husband dragged all kinds of clay from the garage that day. In the beginning, the sun was shining from east to west with skies as blue as the little boy in a nursery rhythm. “Where does this one go,” my husband asked? He did so in the nicest way, holding up a chipped crock of colored lime, swirled in cream paisley. “Over there,” I motioned with a forefinger covered in gloved rubber. My other held a frosted glass of plastic yellow. It was getting oh-so-hot! “90 degrees,” said the radio. Drinking water with floating ice in chips, the liquid trickled down my throat, cooling my middle through a straw of red.
Hearing the distinct ‘clink’ of clay on a pattern of patio bricks, I peeked from under the protective brim of my hat to see where my pot of ‘apple-green’ might be. As husbands and wives often do, there was a slight bit of, miscommunication. My treasured vessel was nowhere near I thought it would be. There it was…next to a brown speckled boulder and under a flying bird filled with seeds.
Tired and sweating from the sun, I jumped up to move it. Exasperated, my husband didn’t understand. “Why do I try to help you?” he wondered, aloud. Splish-splash, my glass of cool didn’t last. Gently, he suggested it might be best to ….”learn the importance of patience, rather than the unimportance of perfection.”
With liquid running cold down my leg, I agreed and apologized to my dear husband. Clear ice danced in blazing sun, while geraniums, marigolds and petunias waited planting turns before an afternoon of sudden.
How silly was I? It didn’t matter where a colored pot did sit! God brushed pictures with nature’s beauty wherever my flowering plants were set.