This morning I woke up in a mood. It was early - too early - and the dog was pawing, which felt like clawing, and the sun was already filling the room despite the clock glaring brightly in angry red numbers, 5:29, loudly announcing what I already knew. It was too early. Like in the movies, I dramatically pulled the covers over my head, letting out a groan that must have sounded like an invitation to play because the dog went from pawing (clawing) to jumping-nosing-wagging-licking.
I surrendered, rolling out of bed, with the grace of a newborn foul trying to stand, which surely made me look like a movie star of the slapstick comedy variety. I laced up my work shoes, headed outside and got a jump on the day’s ever-growing list of chores.
As I stood in the field, with my mood still mooding and my joints still creaking, my eyes began to adjust and my sight began to focus. Across the field and behind the neighbor’s red barn, the sky gleamed rose pink and coral. From the woods behind me, I heard turkeys, a rooster and the morning melody of songbirds. The farm was still. Mr. Farmer appeared, greeting me with his soft smile and a steamy cup of black coffee. “Now that’s a movie star,” I thought. The bubblegum pink petals of my towering hybrid tea rose seemed to be floating, and I felt something begin to stir within me.
The stirring was soft, kind and warm, like a just-right hug - not too long but not too quick, firm but not too tight, fragrant but not too perfume-y, the kind that feels like home. Suddenly my spirit was pleasant, content and filling with what I could only describe as joy emerging. I certainly did not give my spirit permission to behave this way. We were grumpy, remember? We were in a mood.
And if I’m being honest, I liked it that way. I wanted to be in a mood. I wanted to sulk in my misery for no other reason than that’s what I felt like doing.
But today had other plans for me. The simple grace of the morning softened my heart and whispered to my soul, “You are loved.”
Before I knew what was happening, my heart turned and began to search for more gifts, a bit greedy, in my opinion, considering we were just thinking about spraying the cat with the jet-feature on the hose and now we were looking for the morning to give us more hugs. But there I was, chin up and looking for gifts. I noticed the bounty of irises, including the bold blue-purple ones gifted to us by a neighbor, unfolding their exotic beauty right before my eyes. I noticed the mockingbird in the tree above me, a one-bird Broadway musical filling the sky. I noticed the colors, the sounds, the fresh air, the morning light, all of it surrounded me, and there I was, being hugged by creation.
I can’t believe this is my life. Flower farming has gifted me a daily invitation into God’s creation, and I just don’t know how to sulk like the grump I sometimes want to be when I’m surrounded by such wonder, awe and miraculous simplicity. I’ve tried to stay grumpy. I really have. But the goodness of the earth’s beauty is just that good - good enough to make each moment more captivating than any Oscar-winning film, more stunning than any red-carpet beauty, more brilliant than any show-stopping stage performance, and in my case, more funny than any classic comedy (I must still be breaking in the work shoes because I am a tripping fool out there on the farm. Good gracious, y’all, it’s concerning.)
If you have supported our farm in any way, I don’t even know how to thank you. I don’t know how to thank you for believing in us. I don’t know how to thank you for giving us a reason to keep showing up among the irises, songbirds, sunsets, roses and wildlife to steward the beauty of God’s glorious creation. I can only hope that when you take home flowers from our farm, you too will know that you are loved. That you will feel it at your core. With that bit of creation wrapped tightly and tucked snuggly in your hand, you will soften, smile and sense joy emerging from the deep, a creation hug from the One who loves you more than any onscreen epic-movie love ever was or ever will be.
