Hydrangea Hideaway
My nephew Everett had a way with words.

He was two years old when he grabbed me by the hand. “Come on. Let’s go visit the angel garden,” he announced. I wondered what in the world that child could possibly be talking about.

I had no choice but to follow Everett outside. I held on tight as he led me over to a neighbor’s yard and pointed at her hydrangeas. “Aren’t they beautiful?” I said.

Everett’s little face lit up. “Yes and look at all those little wings inside. That’s why they’re called ‘hide angels.’”

Upon closer inspection I saw that Everett was right: The petals did look like angel wings. Hydrangeas. Hide angels. Why not?

—Amber Cooke, Richmond, Virginia

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Sweetheart Roses, Sweetheart Memory
Every anniversary A.J. and I had a ritual: We wound up our musical roses and swayed in each other’s arms to the tune, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

It was the first song we ever danced to and remained “our song” for 64 years of marriage.

Just after A.J. died, the musical roses stopped working. It seemed fitting, now that there were no more anniversaries to celebrate. Yet I couldn’t throw the funny contraption away. I dug it out on my first anniversary without him.

I took it out to the porch and tried turning it on one more time. No luck. My sweetheart seemed farther away than ever. I left the roses and went to bed.

I drifted off when I heard a noise coming from the porch. I got up and opened the patio door. Our anniversary roses were swaying along to “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

It was my first anniversary without A.J., but I wasn’t without my memories—or my roses.

—Olive Samson, Story City, Iowa

Mysterious Planting
Spring meant one thing at our house: flowers.

Every year my husband, Bob, and I planted tulip, daffodil and hyacinth bulbs. We checked the garden every day, waiting for God’s glorious canvas to fill it in with color.

One spring stands out more than any other. I was particularly looking forward to seeing our bulbs bloom. My mother, Viola, had just lost a six-year battle with Hodgkin’s disease, and I was depending on the season of rebirth to bring me solace.

Mom was named for a flower, and I tried to imagine her blooming anew in heaven. But all I could think about was how much I missed her.

“Looks like an uninvited guest sneaked into our flowerbed this year,” Bob said when we went outside to inspect the garden. The determined tulip, daffodil and hyacinth bulbs were stretching their green arms up through the soil, but there was something else I couldn’t identify growing alongside them.

“Weeds?” I wondered. Why this spring? Maybe I was silly to think our flower garden could ever give me peace about Mom.

“Let’s wait,” Bob said. “If they’re weeds we’ll pull them.”

Days passed and the mysterious visitor in our garden grew into a mass of green shoots. Soon I recognized the leaves: Violas! What a beautiful glimpse of heaven and the promise it holds.

—Joanne Larson, Fountain Hills, Arizona

Birthday Greetings

A friend gave me an African violet plant when my father passed away.

I kept it on my desk at the office, where I never tired of admiring its rich green leaves. Those beautiful purple blossoms had been a special present that gave me hope for the future during my time of grief, but it had never bloomed since.

Not that I expected it to. I knew just enough about African violets to know they were notoriously difficult to grow.

The day before Dad’s birthday I watered my plant and thought of him. Maybe if I hope hard enough it will bloom again sometime.

I opened my eyes the next morning with Dad’s birthday the first thought in my mind. I got up and went into the office to start my day. I couldn’t believe what I saw when I arrived.

There, in the middle of all those leaves, was a single purple blossom. Now, whenever I feel discouraged I think of that single purple blossom, and suddenly I’ve got all the hope in the world.

—Jo Donofrio, Westlake, Ohio

A Pansy’s Purpose
I hadn’t expected to see any blooms in the flowerbeds.

The snow and ice from a long cold winter had only just melted. But as I approached, a spot of yellow caught my eye. A pansy. A single pansy poked through the snow.

Pansies were known to grow in winter, even surviving freezing temperatures. But surviving months of snowstorms? This little flower must have survived for a purpose, I thought.

I brought it inside and looked for my tiniest vase. Give it to Kelly, something nudged me.

Well, that thought had come out of nowhere. Kelly was the manager at the pool where I took swimming classes. She was always so kind and thoughtful. I didn’t know her well, but I knew she had a child who died. Maybe this pansy really is meant for her, I thought.

Driving over to the pool I wondered what Kelly would make of my odd present. After all, it was a single flower. And not a rose or a lily. A simple pansy.

I handed it to her at the pool. Kelly’s eyes teared up. “You’ve given me a wonderful gift,” she said. “A reminder of my son’s presence.”

I hadn’t known: Pansies were their favorite flower. And indeed, this pansy had a purpose.

—Mae Cannon, Blanchard, Idaho

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Skiing was all I had on my mind.

There was nothing I liked more than grabbing my cross-country skis on a sunny winter day and leaving everything else behind. I drove out to the local nature preserve. There was real freedom in being out there alone, just me, the snow and the sky.

The day was so beautiful, I stayed out way later than I should’ve. How can I go back to my day-to-day life when I’ve got all of this? I thought as I whizzed down a small slope. The sky darkened and the wind picked up. Better get home before it really starts snowing. I was only about a half hour from my car. The flakes were coming down faster and faster as I moved down the trail back to the parking lot. Soon I could barely see ten feet in front of me.

I left the trail and headed in a straight line down the sloping hill. I zoomed along until it got too dense, dark and snowy to keep going safely at that pace. Oh, God, I croaked. It’s going to be a whiteout.

Gusts of wind pelted my face with snow. I pulled my coat tightly around me and tied my scarf around my head. I groped behind me trying to find the trail, but all I saw around me was snow, snow and more snow. Now I didn’t know which end was up.

I got down on one knee. Lord, please help me not to panic.

I stood up, picked a direction and made my way back toward the parking lot. I could only hope it was the right way. Time seemed to pass slower as I got more and more worried. How do you know you’re even going in the right direction? I asked myself. What if you’re going the wrong way? My glorious afternoon had turned into a real nightmare. I toppled into a snowbank. “Help me, God,” I cried. “Don’t let me die here!”

I pushed myself back onto my feet. It was hard to even stand against the violent gusts. I pushed on. “Give me strength, God,” I said. It was pitch black outside. My body was failing. I wanted to sleep, but that would be deadly. I fell into another snowbank. This time, I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up. I struggled helplessly against the dense snow. “Please, God,” I begged. “This is as far as I can go.”

Suddenly, I heard a crunching sound in the distance. I pulled myself up as far as I could. “Hello!” I called. “Hello! Can you hear me?”

Out of the darkness skied a young man. “Ski over to that tree and make a left,” he said, helping me up. “There’s a small ranger’s shed. You can warm up inside.”

I looked to where he was pointing and saw the little shack. He gripped my arm. “When the storm lets up, follow that trail behind the house back to the parking lot! Go! Now!”

With that, he skied off down the mountain. I pushed my way to the shed and let myself in. I sat down and warmed up by the heating vent. I checked myself for frostbite. Everything seemed okay. I closed my eyes and waited. It was almost midnight by the time the snow slowed to a gentle flurry.

Sure enough, the path was where the young man had told me. I skied past the spot where I’d collapsed and found the imprint in the snow where I’d almost met my end. I could see my tracks still in the snow, too, heading over the ranger’s shed. But when I looked down the path in the direction the young man had gone, I couldn’t see any ski tracks at all. Just a fresh fallen snow. “But how…?” I wondered. I had no answer.

I followed the trail and found my car. I started the engine, turned the heat on high and took off my gear. I laid my head on the steering wheel, still in shock over my miraculous rescue. I knew that if that young man hadn’t helped me, I wouldn’t be sitting here feeling the heat from the car. Only you could have done this, I prayed to God. Thank you.

To this day, whenever I see a blizzard anywhere I’m reminded to lift my eyes and whisper, “Thank you.” I still love leaving it all behind to go skiing. But the one thing I never leave behind is God. And I know he never leaves me either. Not even in the worst of snowstorms.

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We were only an hour into our 3,000-mile, cross-country trek to my family reunion in North Carolina.

Already, bored voices from the backseat of our old, un-air-conditioned Dodge Dart were pleading: “Are we there yet?” Driving wasn’t the fastest route to our destination, but it was the cheapest.

My husband, Jeff, and I had planned this trip for months, mapping it from our home in eastern Washington, highlighting campgrounds along the way. I couldn’t wait to catch up with relatives and show off Christy, our newest addition at 18 months old.

At least she wasn’t crying in her car seat—yet. Her sisters, LeeAnne, seven, and Kellye, five, were already complaining.

Even reaching this point—doing laundry, packing, planning snacks and car activities—hadn’t been easy. We’d left right after church, midday on a Sunday, the minister’s sermon on turning our worries over to God still fresh in my mind. That might have worked for someone who wasn’t carting three kids on a road trip in a car with 165,000 miles on it and an unsettling tendency to slip out of gear.

The Dart rode so low to the ground that we held our breath over speed bumps. Plus, I had to watch our pennies and keep us on schedule. All those breaks for the girls to potty could really add up. These were my worries for now. God could take over the worrying once we made it to the reunion.

We stopped for a quick lunch by a big pond in northern Oregon. “Who wants to watch Daddy skip rocks?” Jeff asked the girls.

“Not now, Jeff. We’re still ten hours from your mother’s house,” I called after him. We’d planned to spend our first night in Reno with her.

“Just a couple more. I have to beat my record!” he said. At this rate, we would never make it to the reunion.

“Try this one, Daddy!” Kellye yelled. “It’s perfect.”

Jeff fingered the pebble, nodding his approval. He pulled his arm back and released the rock with a practiced flick of the wrist.

Plop! Plop! Plip! The last skips came so fast we could barely keep up with them. Sixteen skips in all! Each sent a swell of ripples out through the water. It always amazed me what one pebble could do. This one had left its mark for sure. It was so beautiful I nearly forgot my worries. “Okay, everybody. In the car!”

By late afternoon southern Oregon’s soaring temperatures made the Dart feel like a blast furnace. The girls were whining and arguing. “I guess we need a break,” I said.

We found a park in Klamath Falls with a wading pool. After we cooled off, we loaded up again. Jeff threw the car in reverse. But the Dart slipped out of gear and lurched forward, its bottom scraping over the concrete parking strip. The underbelly of the car ground against the barrier as Jeff got us free.

Heading down the road, Jeff looked in the rearview mirror. “Uh-oh!” he said. I looked out the back. A trail of oil snaked behind us.

Jeff groaned. “Busted oil pan.” He coasted to a spot behind a gas station, jacked the car up and crawled underneath. When he finally wriggled out, even the oil couldn’t hide the concern on his face. “It’s fixable, if I can find someone to weld the hole in the oil pan. Plus, I need more oil and a gasket. But who’re we going to find at five o’clock on a Sunday?”

Jeff and I stared at the Dart, not knowing what to do. A gravelly voice startled us. “Howdy, folks!”

We looked up at a tall man with a thatch of silver hair poking out from under a black cowboy hat. “Name’s Phil,” he continued. “Anything I can do?”

We explained the situation. “Let me make a call,” Phil said and strode to the gas station. When he returned he said the owner of the auto parts store had agreed to stay open for us. “He’s a friend,” Phil explained.

He led the girls and me to his air-conditioned van while Jeff got the bolts off the oil pan. “I’m hungry, Mommy!” Christy said.

“Me too!” her sisters chimed in.

“I know a cure for that,” Phil said. Before I could protest, he was head-ed up the road to a Dairy Queen. Hamburgers and milk shakes for everyone, including Jeff. I pulled out my wallet. “Your money’s no good here,” Phil said. Munching on my hamburger, I couldn’t resist peeking at him. Is this guy for real?

When we returned to the Dart with Jeff’s burger, he had a question for Phil. “You don’t happen to know anyone who welds, do you?”

“You’re looking at him,” Phil said.

Once again the girls and I jumped into the van. We rode to a big metal building across town. When Phil opened the place up, we gasped. A row of classic sports cars sat in various stages of restoration. “You’re welcome to look around,” Phil said. “I’ll be done in a jiffy.”

It had been a long day. Normally, the girls would be inventing new ways to annoy one another. But they were entranced. “Wow! This is cool,” LeeAnne said, running her hand over the shiny red hood of a ’59 Porsche. We lingered there studying every car until Phil returned.

“Sorry that took so long.” Funny, I hadn’t looked at my watch once. It was 7:00 p.m. Phil must have had his own schedule for the day, but when he saw we were in trouble he put his entire focus on us.

The Dart looked forlorn sitting in its puddle of oil back at the station. All that time wasted. We were still six whole hours away from Reno.

“Anyone around here like to swim?” asked Phil. “A friend of mine owns a nice little motel nearby.”

I glanced at Jeff. It would throw us a day off schedule, and we had intended to avoid motels. But then again, Phil had saved us so much.

At the motel the girls squealed when they spotted the corkscrew pool slide. I tried to give Phil some money, but he just shook his head. “Do a favor for someone else,” he said.

In our motel room, Kellye looked at me seriously. “Was he an angel?”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” I replied. “But he’s an angel.”

That night we bowed our heads and thanked God for sending Phil into our lives. I still couldn’t get over the attention he’d given us. The wading pool, the garage full of hot rods, the corkscrew slide, skipping rocks in the pond—who had time for worries?

I called Jeff’s mom to say we’d be there a day late. As I fell asleep I saw the surface of the pond again, ripples spreading ever outward, like angels spreading God’s radiant, never-ending love.

We were prepared to pass along the kindness Phil showed us and make our mark like a skipping stone. I’d let God worry about the schedule.

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As an artist, I’m a keen observer—I always note the details that make each individual unique. But there’s one portrait I’ll never be able to paint.

Twenty-five years ago, my husband and I were hauling our trailer down from Omaha to Holiday Island, Arkansas, for vacation when the transmission blew on our ’87 Chevrolet Suburban. We pulled to the side of the interstate. “Let’s flag down a car,” my husband said.

I stood outside the car, nervous and scared. Almost immediately, a car pulled up next to us. “Get in,” a woman said, friendly as could be. “I’ll take you to the Chevrolet dealer. It’s not far.”

She had the kind of face I knew I could trust. My husband stayed with the Suburban, and I climbed in with the stranger. “Memorize the mile marker for the tow truck driver,” she said.

The woman stood behind me while I spoke to the mechanic at the dealership. “We’ll send a tow truck,” he said.

“You’ll be all right now,” I heard the woman say.

The mechanic thrust some paperwork into my hands. I glanced at it briefly and turned around. The woman was gone.

I have often thought about painting her, my mysterious rescuer. But when I sit down at a blank canvas, brush in hand and try to picture her, I can’t. Her features are blurred, like a figure from a dream.

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