Originally posted on A Lamp, a Light, and a Writer:
I should chop that thing down.
The emerald green of the gladiolus stem was gone. In its place was a dried out, bare stalk. The flowers had withered away, their deep pink beauty just a memory.
The bloom was off the gladiolus, and my glove-covered hands itched to snip, snip.
But, I didn’t.
I’d planted the seed months ago, in the expectant air of spring. A tiny promise in a bag.
My hubby said it would be tall, and it was. God’s amazing design, from nearly invisible in the palm to breathtaking beauty towering over the garden.
Hidden safely away beneath dark soil for weeks, months, the seed finally sprouted then shot up to nearly the same height as my nine-year old.
The gladiolus flower was gorgeous, well worth the wait. Fuchsia tinted with darker, silken edges, it captured the eye and touched the soul with the lushness of God’s paintbrush.
But in the grip of Florida’s summer heat, the flower…
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