Not this time.
Genevieve scanned the crowd of familiar, smiling faces outside the window searching for her husband. But Steven wasn’t there.
Go ahead. Unlock the door.
Just as she reached for the doorknob, Genevieve heard the stomp, stomp and patter, patter of footsteps behind her. She turned to see the man she loved. His steady eyes were as blue as Lake Zurich on a summer’s day. Beside him was their firstborn daughter, Josephina.
“Mom!” Fina cried, as she wrapped her arms around Genevieve and plastered a kiss on her cheek. “I’m so glad you and Dad sent me a ticket and told me I had to come. This is awesome! Look at this place.”
Genevieve kissed Fina on both cheeks. “Look at you. You’re beautiful.”
“So are you, Mom. You look great. Doesn’t she look great, Dad?”
Steven’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, she does.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.” Genevieve reached for Steven’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Both of you. This means a lot to me.”
“Are you kidding?” Fina flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “I’m the one who’s glad to be here. Dad drove like a maniac all the way from the airport because my flight came in late. He was determined we get here on time.”
Steven drew his wife close. He kissed her tenderly and whispered, “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
And Genevieve believed him.
Dear Reader,
Why is it that wildflowers give a sense of fresh starts and renewed delights? Is it the way they spring up along the side of the road and seem so carefree and independent? Wildflowers aren’t carefully planned and planted in rows. They appear where least expected. They surprise us with their color. They amaze us with their bright beauty.
Wildflowers, however, are also fragile.
Maybe that’s what got me thinking about Genevieve and her creative, colorful spirit. She was supposed to have a walk-on part in Glenbrooke 4, Sunsets. But I kept thinking about her. I wondered if she was really as vibrant and free as she appeared to be at first glance. That’s why I wanted to write a story about her. I wanted to understand the fragile side of Genevieve’s wildflower spirit and watch her blossom when the Son flooded her life with light.
While I was working on this book, I visited my parents. It’s been over five years since a stroke paralyzed my dad. Mom still cares for him at home. She is my hero.
On their coffee table I noticed an old book titled Wildflowers of North America. My grandpa gave the book to my grandma in 1963 when they celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. On the inside cover, Grandpa penned a sweet poem to his wife.
May the beauty of each flower portray
A vision of my love so true
As each and every flower portrays to me
The blessing I have received from you.
I copied his words in my journal, wondering what it would be like to be married for thirty-five years and to be told that after all that time I was still a blessing to my husband. I want to love and be loved with that same brightness and whimsical clarity.
My parents just celebrated their forty-eighth anniversary. I thought about all the wildflower days that have sprung up during the past five years for them. Days that were not carefully planned and planted in rows. Fragile, wildflower days that in the randomness of their appearing brought unexpected brightness and color to the depth of my parents’ love.
With this story comes a prayer for all of you who are in a wildflower season in your marriage. May God show you where any roots of bitterness and unforgivingness have begun to grow in your heart. May His only Son, the Great Healer and Patient Gardener, remove those deadly roots from your life completely. And may the Holy Spirit send a fresh breath across the garden of your heart, releasing the fragrance of His beauty and scattering His seeds of new beginnings. May all your days be wildflower days—fragile and fragrant. Carefree and bright. Filled with light and love.
Always,
WILDFLOWERS RECIPE
Now that our oldest son is in college, it’s rare for us to be together, let alone all sit down to dinner together. A few months ago, we were all in southern California at the same time. We gathered at the home of some special friends—John and Debbie. Debbie and I went to high school together. We double-dated in college. We had our first babies in the same hospital with the same doctor. Our husbands bought dune buggies together and took them out racing in the desert. Then our family moved, and for many years our only regular communication with John and Debbie and their growing family was through Christmas cards.
When we sat around John and Debbie’s dinner table a few months ago, our grown children gazed at one another shyly across the table. “Do you boys remember going to swimming lessons together?” Debbie and I asked them. No. They were only four at the time. “Do you girls remember playing together at the beach?” No. They were only pigtailed toddlers.
Then my son took a bite of Debbie’s chicken, and a familiar look floated across his face. “Hey, now I remember this!” he said, digging in for another bite. “Mom, how come you never make chicken like this?”
Debbie and I exchanged the ageless look of women who should know by now that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. “I’ll give you the recipe,” Debbie whispered. “There’s nothing low-cal about it, but trust me. Your kids will ask for it every time they know you’re going to cook for them.”
Sure enough. I’m leaving for a book-signing trip this Wednesday. I will be at my son’s apartment in Florida for a total of thirty-two hours before flying to Atlanta. “Is there anything you’d like me to bring?” I asked on the phone last night. At first he said no. Then he paused and said, “Is there any chance you could make some of that good chicken while you’re here?”
In honor of my long-time friend Debbie, and with love to starving college sons everywhere, here’s the recipe for:
ALISSA’S RITZY CHICKEN
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 can of cream of chicken soup
1 strip of Ritz crackers, crushed
1 cube of butter, melted
½ cup of sour cream added to the top, optional
Place chicken in casserole baking pan. Cover with soup. Top with crushed crackers, and pour melted butter over the top. Add sour cream, if desired. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.
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