hope blooms

My dad called me as I left work today to keep me company on my drive home. He’s buying a property in the hills of North Georgia. Ten acres of sunshine to build a cabin on, a place to watch for shooting stars.

He drove there this past weekend – to walk the property lines. It was his first time seeing it all done up for spring time. There’s a long row of daffodils, he said. Then a long row of iris. Then a long row of hyacinth. There are blueberry bushes. And there’s more still left to bloom.

You would have thought he found an oil well, the way his voice lit up as he described the budding scene to me.

But that’s the kind of man he is. The kind who identifies all the birds as they arrive at the feeder – gold finch, indigo bunting, mourning dove, chickadee. The kind who counts his deer encounters as he winds through the trails at Cheatham Hill Park. The kind who ad-libs songs on my voicemail on Friday mornings.

The kind who sees the hope in the jonquils. And calls just to make sure I see it too.

two young girls picking jonquils
Me and my sister, picking jonquils.


to dad

When I was a little girl with polka dot bows and Velcro shoes, I always knew when the hydrangea bushes, lining the side of our little blue house, would bloom. Every year, it was late May or early June. My dad told me they were blooming just for me – to wish me happy birthday.

Now every time I see those big round clusters of violet and blue flowers, I can’t help but think of him. And how he taught me to appreciate the world around me and wonder at its beauty.

(Image source: Better Homes and Gardens.)