I don't recognize it for what it is at first. I'm drawn to it's perfect examples of pistils and stamen. I lure the kids near, eager to illustrate their book learning. Again.
They lean in and Grant's eyes narrow. "It's not real."
He's right, it's a fraud, plastic pistils and all.
"How did you know?" I'm supposed to be the adult, the one who's got this botany thing down.
"It's too perfect. Perfect things are never real. It doesn't even smell."
Rosy objects after a long inhale, "It does so smell! It smells like plastic!"
I remove flower from small nostril.
His voice, his words, play ring around the rosy all day in my mind.
"It's too perfect. Perfect things are never real."
I aim for perfection and lose some of my humanity, my realness, in the bargain.
I'm reminded once again, that God doesn't want my perfection.
That His voice will shatter my illusions when I think I've got this Christianity thing down.
That the fragrance of God is Christ, realer than real, not plastic. I don't want to reek of imitation.
So I go outside and sit in the sun. Soak in it's healing warmth. And I grow real.
|Two of my fairies at their ballet recital.|