It sounds so romantic, but it's not.
I can testify to this and if you drove past my house Saturday you would have seen me on all fours cultivating for all I was worth.
I'm used to my flowers blooming unassisted. But lately, I've been wondering if my yard could be more if I poured more time into it, if I cultivated it.
So yesterday, armed with fertilizer and a spade, I cleared a circle of space around my rose bushes so they could breathe. I added fertilizer and mixed it in well so they would bloom lush.
I don't have any pictures to offer you of this process because I wasn't thinking about blogging at all. I was thinking about the ball that I would be attending that night with my daughter. I was thinking about how much I've learned about her lately.
Last Saturday we had a disagreement regarding our cleaning time. I am rather dramatic. She is stoic. This can equal trouble in a mother/daughter conflict. The reality is, I want her to respond to me like me. I want her to apologize with sackcloth and gnashing of teeth. I want to see tears to know there's contrition. But she's her and not me. And she gives me a sorrowful look with her big brown eyes and closes herself up in silence in her room. That night I get a note on my bed that states that she loves me, but she is an Indian and keeps all her emotions inside and on the outside, is expressionless. Last I heard we were Germans, who are not known for suppression.
So God, in His kindness, brings me a friend who once upon a time was a quiet, reserved girl with a verbal, dramatic mother, and we talk. In sweetness and gentleness, she is able to show me that Avonlea is just Avonlea. She is a precious soul that God made, not for the express purpose of helping me clean, but to do His will and to glorify Him.
So the next day Avonlea and I talk. It's hard work. I clear a space around her, clear it of my ideals and ideas and give her some room to breathe. I reaffirm how much I love who God has made her and I talk with her about ways we can improve our communication. I get a glowing look from those big brown eyes and she hugs me and opens up her silence to let me in. I think she's German again.
We work on this all week. I give her space. I fertilize her with love and listen to what she's trying to say to me. And Saturday night I take her to a ball.
We go to an English Country dance in our best dresses and we dance with each other all night (except for 2 dances when she was claimed by a young gentleman).
Our brown eyes laugh joy into each others and we bloom lush.
|Mommy and her Papoose|