I laboured with He brings flowers (the last chapter of Honey & Water). The other chapters came more naturally and flowed more freely. I think it’s because the things I was processing, surrendering, wrestling with in those chapters felt tangible… felt close…felt real (more on those later).
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He brings flowers was powerful, declarative, decisive and wrapped the book up into a nice, neat bow but it didn’t sit well. I liked the title, but the words within didn’t resonate. They fell flat. I didn’t believe them to be true. I realise now that I wasn’t convinced because I hadn’t experienced what I was writing. I was still being established in the revelation.
Held together with a giant bulldog clip, I took my printed manuscript to Japan last September. I was determined to finish editing in a new place with new surroundings. The trip ended up being one of the most profound, surprising experiences of restoration in my life.
In a matter of three weeks, I became so acutely aware of flowers. They weren’t meant to be everywhere; it was the end of summer! But somehow, they were.
Subtle arrangements. Striking installations. Organised gardens. Overgrown borders. Tiny vases of local blooms in corners. Larger vases telling the story of outside. Walls and walls of orchids. Trees of pink lining riverbanks. Hydrangeas growing out of fences. Bursts of colour on every street. Edible flowers adorning our food. Windows framing outside views with intention. There were so many delights to behold, so many sighs of relief, so many exclamations at creation. I felt alive for the first time in years.
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I finally saw this collection of words, with new eyes. It was as if I’d been writing on restoration all along. My great grandfather’s dahlia gardens weren’t just a deep source of beautiful floral inspiration, but a smile from Heaven. My mama’s dahlias blooming at the time I officially launched Honey & Water was a sweet confirmation that the details matter. My love of flowers and creating floral installations isn’t just a happy accident, but a gift passed on through my bloodline. This trip wasn’t just an aesthetic paradise but a sacred reminder of beauty blooming in unlikely places.
I started to recall every moment of provision, of wonder and of beauty over the years. My ordinary life was bursting at the seams with the revelation that healing was already in motion. The season was turning. Hope was here.
This piece from He brings flowers says it best:
I’ve found it hard to come to terms with hope in my adult years. In years of wilderness, even more so. It’s as if I flit between hope and hopelessness in a matter of moments. I’ve done my best to reach for Heaven in grief. But sometimes reaching feels like a strenuous exercise. In those moments, I’m desperate for something, anything to hold onto. Other times, reaching for Heaven is all I know to do. I used to be so hard on myself when my first response in the morning was to fret instead of pray. I would hide the reality of my feelings, fearful of the consequences of being honest about where my hope truly was and how I was truly doing. My hope was rooted in people, in my job, in my marital status, in my ability to carry myself and my titles with grace. With wisdom, I realise that even in bittersweet delight, prayer can be a beautiful enterprise, a safe refuge, a place I long to be. Because true hope is a promise. It’s what we cling to in the deep hours of the night. Where we turn in tragedy and where we turn in celebration. Now I know that the Spirit empowers our song with His abounding song. And in our tearful surrender, He turns the soil of the soul, making miracle gardens where hopelessness used to be. Surely where we place our hope makes all the difference. Surely hope is the confidence that restoration is possible.
Surely hope is the confidence that restoration is possible xx
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