Flowers that Speak
It was the year 2021 when I had the privilege of spending a full year in my home on maternity leave with my eldest son, Merek. He blessed us with his presence in December of 2020, 2 weeks before his due date. Sure, I was 38 weeks pregnant but seeing as he was my first baby, my husband, Cody, and I weren't expecting his arrival until January. As (clueless) parents, we quickly pulled up our socks and began the journey to figure out how to keep this sweet child alive.
A brisk January rolled around the corner; conditions we were accustomed to as we'd been residents of Northern Saskatchewan for some time already. However, it was a dark, gloomy beginning to the year, as we were still restricted to a COVID lock down and instructed to only have contact with those in the household; ie. Cody, Merek, and myself. Merek and I left the home for necessary medical appointments but by the time mid February arrived, I was about to lose my mind from the isolation.
As a new, sleep deprived mom who, prior to my child being born, consistently worked 50-60 hour weeks in healthcare, I went completely stir crazy confined to my home with a needy baby. As the months went by, I was forced to s l o w d o w n. It was in this time of slowing down that I began to meet with the Lord and pursue a closeness with Him that my soul had been longing to know. I found rest for my weary soul.
I began to fill my days with cup-filling podcasts and online church sermons. The Bible that had been collecting dust for years in the corner, suddenly was opened, read, and studied. Making a routine of reading my Bible was always a struggle of mine prior to maternity leave. It felt like there was never time. And if I did find time, my mind was distracted and far away thinking of my to-do list and the work that needed to get done at home and in my workplace.
It was springtime now. Merek and I were beginning to venture outdoors and finally breathe in some fresh air. The stir craze of a new mother melted away with the snow. I began to feel a little more confident in my new role as mother, and to be honest, a little more of a human rather than a milk machine. My baby grew and hit milestones as he should, and his sweet coos and smiles made the tough parts not so tough. We invested in an off-road athletic stroller, because living as rural as we do, there's not many sidewalks to be walked down - just gravel roads and beaten trails.
Walking became therapeutic to me. It was my time to connect with God. Merek was always happy in his stroller, and it felt great using muscles I hadn't properly used for months. Walking was my "self-care". It was a time I listened to worship music, podcasts or church sermons. Sometimes, I just needed the silence. I gratefully watched the snow depart for that year, and witnessed the geese return to their homes. I was overjoyed to see the beginnings of new life form on the branches of the trees and sprout up from the ground. My body that felt unrecognizable was a little more my own again. Whenever I felt overwhelmed or we were having a difficult day, I bundled us up and we set out on a walk.
As we cheerfully entered the full thralls of summer, our schedule became a little more full with a vast variety of outdoor activities to choose from: swimming, berry picking, campfires, hiking, gardening - we reveled in the joy of the summertime sunshine with the days lasting well into the evening. With our social calendar filled, I loved and embraced the new routine we found, no longer missing the gratification work brought me. And with my maternity leave already halfway done, I was grieved to know it was coming to an end.
One summer day in July, I came across a post made by a dear friend. It was a heavy-hearted post: one which recognized and honored the memory of her child, torn too soon from this world. As a beautiful sentiment to her baby, she pressed a sprig of baby blue eucalyptus along with snow white carnations. She wrote, "So for you, carnations for a mother's eternal love & eucalyptus for the protection my body couldn't give you".
I felt the devastation in her words. Grievously, walking alongside others in their deepest sorrows was something I knew all too well as her loss was not my first loved one to know such a horrendous experience. There was no words, no actions to remedy her pain. Nor should there be because death should have never been. Death - a consequence of believing the lie of the enemy - entered this world when Eve believed the serpent when he said God was withholding good from them, took the fruit and ate it with her husband despite God saying, "If you eat it, you will die". We were created in the image of God (Gen1.27). God is eternal with no beginning or end, hence to experience the finality of 'death' due to our rebellious nature is excruciating, confusing, and further instills the sense of 'this should never have been'.
In light of this, I have learnt that people try to 'fix the problem' through offering nuances or advice, cooking them a hot meal, drawing them a warm bath, or so on. Perhaps this might for a short while soften the harsh edges of their grief, sometimes it makes it worse, but most often, and as uncomfortable as it can be, the one who grieves simply needs you to s i t w i t h t h e m in their brokenheartedness. As a part of my friend's own grief experience, what she did for her baby - preserving the flowers and greenery that held so much meaning - was delicate and beautiful. It spoke to my heart in a way that I never knew simple flowers could.
After this, my walks were different. Could flowers aid in healing? I knew a Creator, The Creator, who intricately designed each flower of the field. From then on, as I walked pushing my son in the stroller, I began to notice the details of the grasses around me. God spoke to me through His creation. How did I miss this before? It was all so beautiful. And so, I began to preserve the little wildflowers growing in the meadows. I discovered that flowers could speak. That they, as simple and fleeting as they might be, drew me to the One who created them. Together, the flowers and I, we shared something: the same Creator. I would soon understand that His great love for me far exceeds the grasses of the field.
