by Donna Poole
We notice subtle differences in our backroad ramblings; the birdsongs are quieter now. The cicadas make up for the birds in volume if not in sweetness. The wildflowers deserve a standing ovation! If they had a voice, they’d be shouting a crescendo of praise, perhaps even the “Hallelujah Chorus” but their riot of color is doing that for them.
Rosinweed adds yellow sunshine to the wildflowers growing along the roadsides; it looks like a tall dandelion. White Queen Anne’s Lace is abundant. Blue Chicory, Daisy Fleabane, white with deep yellow centers, and the beautiful intruder, purple Loosestrife, combine to make fields of showy bouquets. The pink Coneflower, once a common wildflower in Michigan is now listed as threatened and according to the DNR it’s possible it no longer exists as a wildflower. We’ve planted it in our yard, and it spreads a bit every year. It’s bright pink right now in early August.
Are the wildflowers especially beautiful this year?
We’re learning to identify more wildflowers: the False or Oxeye Sunflower, the Woodland Sunflower, Ground Honeysuckle or Common Bird’s-foot Trefoil—don’t you love that name? We’ve spotted Wingstem, a terribly invasive weed with beautiful yellow flowers. I forget the names of these wildflowers as soon as I look them up, but I admire their beauty spread bountifully along the country roads for all to enjoy.
I used to love long hikes to admire the wildflowers, and I will again someday, but for now, when just a walk to the garden tires me enough that I lean on my walking stick and someone’s arm, I’ve discovered another way to enjoy them.
I hear echoes of my mother’s voice. “Take me for a ride, Dominic.”
Mom loved long rides to see the wildflowers. We’d all pile into the station wagon and Dad would drive down country roads, pointing out the wildflowers to us.
Now I sometimes ask, “Take me for a ride, John.”
He does. Early evening before the sun sets is my favorite time to ride. The world is quieting down then; the robins are chirping goodnight and perhaps missing their babies; sometimes I miss mine.
We exclaim over an especially vibrant patch of wildflowers and then see a sign. I laugh.
John looks at me. “What?”
“That sign. ‘Bump.’ It happens to all of us, doesn’t it?”
He smiles and reaches for my hand. It’s a rather sad smile. I don’t have to explain; he knows.
Just try cruising down life’s road without hitting a bump. Sooner or later we all hit one, or two, or many, and often there is no sign to warn us.
Sometimes Dad would hit a bump so hard we kids would laugh as our heads almost collided with the roof of the station wagon.
“Dominic!” We knew that yell well. So did Dad. Sometimes, maybe often, he deserved it.
Once he fell asleep when he was driving. We all did. We woke to Mom’s yell, “Dominic!”
Dad slammed on the brakes, and the car came to stop a few inches from a huge tree. As a girl I was sure all our guardian angels combined to hold that station wagon away from that tree. I pictured them, faces strained with effort, backs against the tree, arms entwined, and legs straight out against the bumper of our car. I’m still not so sure that didn’t happen.
Dad was in his late seventies or early eighties when he rolled his car. He hung upside down, dangling from his seatbelt, and couldn’t get free. Bystanders gawked as the car began to burn. One man rushed through the crowd and pulled Dad from the burning car just before his seat caught fire. God has more than one kind of angel.
When we drove from Michigan to New York to see Dad in the hospital, Kimmee was a toddler. She stared with compassion at her grandpa’s head totally wrapped in bandages. When we got home, she was looking at her books.
I heard Kimmee saying softly, “Poor, poor Grandpa.” She was looking at a picture of Humpty Dumpty with a head wrap after he fell off the wall. I didn’t let her see me laugh.
Even Humpty Dumpty faced bumps in the road.
Who knows? Perhaps Humpty Dumpty was just sitting quietly on his wall, enjoying a vibrant view of wildflowers when suddenly, crash.
In the traditional nursery rhyme, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again, but Kimmee’s book painted a gentler view. Humpty Dumpty had a head wrap, but he was recovering. And who knows? Perhaps his future views of wildflowers from the wall were all the sweeter because of his sudden, unexpected bump.
I love my backroads view of wildflowers. Jesus loved wildflowers too. He said to His friends, telling them not to worry, “Consider the lilies.” He reminded them that even King Solomon’s clothes weren’t as beautiful as wildflowers clothed by God.
I’m amazed. God names every star in the billions of galaxies, sits beside every dying sparrow, and sees every wildflower. He counts the hairs on our heads. I’m saving Him a lot of work in that department, because of chemo I’m about bald! I can trust Him with my bumps in the road.
That’s not to say doubt never mixes with my faith. When a tsunami sweeps away thousands, when children die at the border, when innocents around the world suffer man’s inhumanity to man, when people starve, when an island is dedicated to the depravity of rich men—don’t think I don’t wonder why!
I know all the theologically correct answers. We’re born into a sin-cursed world and a better one is coming, but meanwhile, my heart cries with those who suffer.
I have bumps in my road; some have earthquakes that swallow them alive.
The sun doesn’t always shine on my backroad ramblings. And yet, as always, God points me to the light. Either I believe He is good, and will fix it all someday, or I do not. I choose to believe because I know Him too well not to trust Him.
One day, before Dad went to heaven, I was tired. Dad was near ninety. Surely, he’d have a hopeful answer.
“Dad, does it ever get any easier?”
“No, it doesn’t, honey.”
It wasn’t the answer I hoped for.
“It doesn’t get any easier, but Jesus gets sweeter.”
That was answer I could live with.
Jesus gets sweeter; the wildflowers get lovelier; and someday there will be no more bumps in the road.
