Just a little rambling

I grew up next to a river. I wish that everyone could say the same! I think of my river every day, even now. I used to sit on the craggy rocks of the bank, letting my feet dangle in, watching the beautiful, ponderous movement of the water. It is so silent, yet forever active: kind of like love.

My mother used to braid my hair. I never liked having my hair brushed, because it was very, very long and very, very thick. My mother knew how to brush it, though- she started at the scraggly ends and slowly worked her way up. "100 stokes," she used to say, and we would carefully count each and every draw of the brush through my hair until we reached one hundred. She usually combed and braided my hair in the dining room.
My mother used to have long hair, herself. My father loved her long hair, she told me, and he loved to watch as she would twist it into a wrap around her head. But, the more children she had, the shorter her hair became, because she simply didn't have time to maintain it anymore. It was never too short for us to play with, though.

Once my parents planted tulips out in front of our house. They planted the bulbs during the fall, and all through that season and the winter, the thought of those tulips sat in the back of my mind.
One spring morning I looked out the window and saw, smiling up through the mulch, a delicate little crocus. I remember feeling a jolt of joy. I ran outside, got down on it's level, and said, "You're beautiful! So beautiful!" and proceeded to kiss it's thin petals. The poor little thing probably felt a little overwhelmed with my affection, but it remained there, smiling steadily and looking more beautiful with every passing second. Finally, after much staring and smiling and kissing, I went away from the little crocus for the day and went back to my usual chores. Each time I passed the dining room window, I made sure to glance out at the little flower.
It was raining a couple mornings later. My mother and I were standing in the dining room, folding laundry. I was staring at the threads of rain clinging to the windowpanes, and listening to the gentle drum of the water, when I remembered the crocus. Without stopping to put on a coat I rushed outside and hurried over to the garden patch in front of the house.
There stood the little crocus: but it was not quite the same today. It had drawn its petals carefully over its face, and its little neck was bent down so that it seemed to be asleep. The rain fell down upon it and all around it, and the wind blew so that its fragile stem swayed; but the little crocus remained, modestly clothed and silent.
At first, I was worried. I did not like not being able to see its face, or smell its fragrance- I felt entirely shut off. I spoke with it, coaxed it, sang to it (and felt a tiny bit foolish, but not much); but all to no avail. So finally I left, feeling a little saddened and dejected, and scared that the little crocus might die.
The next day was brilliant and sunny. One of those days where everything just drips with something good and beautiful, and everyone is happy...don't you find that most days after a rain are that way?

Well. On this particularily lovely spring morning, I took a stroll outside in the oh- so ardently shining sun and happened to pass by the garden. There, to my surprise, I saw a glorious, perfectly white tulip with its face tilting up into the sky. It looked like a cup of purity. I realized this was my little crocus, the one that had been so guarded a couple days before. As I stood there marveling at that gentle creation, I realized that the little crocus was not unlike a human soul.
The soul is given many gifts and many treasures. One of the finest treasures a soul can be given is the gift of simplicity and purity. This gift has to be guarded jealously, and it will only be cultivated if it receives direct contact with the Son.
The crocus, in closing its petals and averting its face from the freezing rain and driving wind, is the pure soul who covers itself in the garment of stillness and patience. The pure soul resolutely shuts its doors to the inclement weather of the world, to the driving sensuality and freezing fears. And when the time is right- when the storms of destruction have passed by- the crocus is transformed into a tulip, which is the fullest form of its being- and it displays its beauty and radiance to the sun. So it is with the soul...after the period of waiting and safekeeping, its gently cultivated purity is so effervescent that it must burst forth into something magnificent: a soul in the sight of God.
I realized that no amount of human coaxing or singing could get that little crocus to come into its full being--that is something only God can do, in His own time. So it is with human souls. He decides when the time is right, and He decides who gets to delight in the presence of His well-prepared souls.

And sometimes, God puts souls together who recognize the beauty of one another; and these souls put their roots down side by side and quietly encourage each other through every storm and trial, and delight together in every ray of sunshine and every gentle rain-- until the day when they are transplanted by the Gardener into the finest Garden of all.

With love
Gabriella