the Flower Garden

The Flower Garden

A number of years ago, when we walked into the women’s meeting at church, we discovered an artificial flower on each seat. At the end of the lesson, the teacher explained that we are each like this great variety of flowers: red, yellow, yellow-orange, purple, white, and many colors, and on my seat was a stem of yellow daisies. Then they gathered all the flowers up and made two bouquets that they put on the table. They were beautiful all together, but they were many in their color, shape and variety. Our teacher explained that like the individual flowers of the bouquets, we are each needed; that we each have something to give.

I have always loved flowers. When I was young, I loved to go up the mountain in the spring to see the wildflowers as they bloomed: sunflowers, delicate purple flowers growing in the shade, violet-hued phlox and red Indian paintbrush. Later in summer, at the top of the mountains, I could go to see another variety of flowers: purple wild geraniums, wild roses, and many more.

Since I’ve moved south, I’ve discovered a new variety of flowers that are tough enough to withstand the heat: desert marigold, desert bluebells, and yellow brittlebush. Some grow amidst thorns, such as yellow prickly pear or red claret cup cactus. Some only bloom briefly, when the temperature is right and the rain plentiful. Some bloom even in 100 degree or more heat.

If asked which of these flowers is the most beautiful, I would have a hard time deciding. If all were roses, and only roses were considered acceptable, then I would mourn the loss of so much beauty. People all over the world come in such a variety as well. Each culture has its own beauty and variety.  All around us are old, young, healthy, sick, disabled, rich, poor, those who grieve and those who are content. Too often stereotypes indicate that we are only of worth if we are healthy, educated, famous or various other things. We each have something to give. We each are needed in all our variety and abilities. Who are we to say that only certain ones are of worth?

To each is given a gift. Are we plain or ordinary? Unusual or exotic? Able to bloom in adverse conditions? With God’s help, we can find a way. Whether in a desert or the snow, in a far away country or a beautiful garden, what can each of us become as we trust in the Lord’s tender care?

by Danice Hope

Keukenhof park in Netherlands. Image ID: 69624777

© Jaysi |

What Kind of Flower are you?

Like each individual flower, we are each beautiful, valued and unique in our own way. We are all God’s children in all our wonder and diversity.

I would like to post your stories, poems, and essays about your experiences with chronic illnesses. (You don’t need to have the same illnesses as I do). Please send me your work that you feel would benefit others going through their own struggles. Not too long please. You keep your own copyright.  My email is

Christmas Darkness and Light

by Naomi Whittingham

What is the meaning of Christmas when every moment of it is a struggle to exist?  When the very foundations of celebration – food and company, music and light – are so physically destructive as to be impossible?  When even the presence of loved ones is too much to bear?  When the dreadful isolation of illness is greater than ever, because today, more than any day, the world seems to have forgotten your very existence?

During my worst years of ME I felt the weight of these questions like a crushing blow.  I still cannot answer them, for there is no adequate response to such suffering; no words that can make it acceptable.  

Over time I have regained enough health to be able to spend precious time with my family, for which I am grateful every day.  In small doses I can once again enjoy celebrations.  Many of us with severe ME have learned to create our own traditions that fit within our limitations.  For some this will be as simple as listening to a favourite audiobook, or lighting a candle.  Rituals, however basic, can be an important part of marking an event in a meaningful way and breaking the monotony of ordinary existence.  Nonetheless, special occasions for me remain a delicate balancing act.  My spirit craves colour and light, but my body demands darkness and silence in order to function.  Reconciling these two fundamental needs is a challenge that exists all year round, but which is most keenly felt at times like this.  Still, I am fortunate that some degree of balance is even possible. 

What does Christmas mean when, for so many, it merely amplifies the pain of the rest of the year?  When everything that would normally be listed as being of importance at Christmas – family and friends, special food, music – is completely out of reach? 

A few years into my illness I was given a book that contained a re-written version of the Nativity story.  In stark contrast to the usual cosy portrayal, it told the story as it really was: one that was full of suffering, fear and disappointment.  (Giving birth in a stable as a teenager, far from home, isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.)  A version of Christmas that started from a point of suffering, and from which hope emerged in the most bleak and unexpected of places, meant far more to me than the ubiquitous pressure to have a wonderful time.  I realised that regardless of whether I viewed the story as one of religious significance, or simply as a tale reflecting human suffering and hope, there was a spiritual element that resonated with me.  

Darkness and light are an intrinsic part of life.  At Christmas I am especially aware of both the darkness of suffering and the light of the human spirit.  For some of my closest friends, and for someone especially dear to me, Christmas will be yet another day spent in literal darkness, unable even to tolerate the presence of loved ones.  There is no consolation for such pain and deprivation; no words that rationalise or relieve it.  It is brutal, lonely and often unbearable.  And yet the strength of those enduring it is something astonishing.  They hold onto hope (often without even being able to define it as such) when there is almost nothing else.  They fight on through the unendurable, with courage, humour and grace.  Their spirit is the very essence of what it means to be human.  Without even realising it, they bring light to the world. 

My thoughts are with all those struggling this Christmas.  You are not forgotten. 


Used by permission. 

See Naomi’s wonderful website here:



This is where I first got the idea for the Flower Garden.

The Black Rose

In an education class, I was inspired by the story of one of America’s great educators who made a difference in the lives of many. Mary McLeod (1875-1955) was the fifteenth of seventeen children born to African American parents in Mayesville, South Carolina. She first attended school at age nine in a free school for African American children. She would come home from school and teach her brothers and sisters what she had learned each day. She believed that education was the way to help African American children move into the mainstream of American life. She started the Daytona Normal and Industrial School for girls. This school later became Bethune-Cookman College, where she served as president until 1942.

She believed that education helped everyone to respect the dignity of all people, regardless of color or creed. Mary McLeod Bethune served as founder and head of the National Council of Negro Women. She also served in the National Youth Administration and advised President Franklin D. Roosevelt on minority affairs.

Her diary[i] entry from 7 December 1937 offers insight into the hopeful attitude that allowed Mary McLeod Bethune to accomplish so much: “I know so well why I must be here and why I must go to tea at the White House — to remind them always that we belong here; we are a part of America.”

Mary McLeod Bethune was called “the Black Rose”. When she was speaking, she would describe a “people garden”. She said the people of the world were like flowers growing in a garden. Red, yellow, small, or tall, all were different, but each was lovely.

Once a child said to Mrs. Bethune that blacks couldn’t live in a people garden, because there weren’t any black flowers. “Just because you have not seen a thing doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist[ii],” she said.

While travelling in Holland years later, Mrs. Bethune was given the bulbs of black tulips. She had some planted at the entrance of her school. In Switzerland, she was shown the black rose. She was so glad, that when she got home, she ordered 72 black rose bushes, which were planted at Bethune-Cookman College.

by Danice Hope

[i] James A. Johnson, et al. Introduction to the Foundations of American Education. Allyn and Bacon. Needham Heights, MA. 1999. Page 320.

[ii] Patricia and Fredrick McKissack. Mary McLeod Bethune: A Great Teacher. Enslow Publishers, Berkeley Heights, N.J. 2001. Page 19.

Black Rose. ID 57078666 © Tatyanaego | Dreamstime