Of all the flowers in the world God could’ve chosen me to be, He made me a dandelion.
Nobody looks twice at a dandelion when there is a garden full of beautiful flowers to stare at, smell, and appreciate.
Giving no more thought to me than to notice my inappropriateness of place.
I am not: romantic as a rose; exotic as an orchid; delicate as an African violet or fragile as a paperwhite.
Many flowers I have wished to be, so that others might take notice of me.
Many nights have I spent cursing and itter that I was not given the beauty of a real flower.
Many nights have I cried that nobody spent time hovering and fussing over me to grow me into graceful, elegant, floral, maturity.
I was bemoaning such things one evening when a voice from above spoke to me something quite simple, quite logical, but very profound indeed.
One little question.
When was the last time you saw a rose grow out a crack in the sidewalk?
(March 30, 2002)