No Perfect Corners

Sometimes, life sucks...

Seven Years

Sometimes the needle still takes my breath away...

Lord, While I'm Single...

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-I Wanna Be His Woman-

•I wanna be the woman that makes his heart bubble with affectionate words; and yet makes him speechless when he's around me. 

•I wanna be the woman that brings out his tender, gentle, side; and yet makes him blaze with protective harshness when necessary. 

•I wanna be the woman that encourages him loudly in public; and yet encourages him just as much, and even more so, when we're alone. 

•I wanna be the woman that is strong enough to support him when he's hurting, sick, or down; and yet who is humble enough to be lead and supported by him so much more. 

•I wanna be the woman that makes him chuckle and shake his head at me as I randomly dance while doing the dishes; and yet makes him fervently dance with me in his arms when our song comes on. 

•I wanna be the woman that makes him eager to plan and prepare for specific time together; and yet causes him to spontaneously desire to spend time with me during the simplest of things. 

•I wanna be the woman that doesn't burden him with my financial struggles; but comes to him with the gift of her own financial security. 

•I wanna be the woman that allows him time to do what he loves and supports his own dreams; and yet the one that is on his mind the whole time he's away and the one he can't wait to get back to. 

•I wanna be the woman that earnestly tries to meld with his household and love upon his family; and also the one that makes him feel welcome and comfortable with mine. 

•I wanna be the woman that has a hot, home-cooked, meal ready for him when he comes home from work; but also the woman that calls him randomly in the middle of the afternoon and asks "can we go out for tacos tonight?"

•I wanna be the woman that supports and is involved with his love of sports, or sci fi, or action, or whathavehim; but also the one who sits on the couch, leaning on him, reading as he's watching it. 

•I wanna be the woman that helps him dream big and bold for our future; and also who helps anchor him firmly when he gets caught up in them. 

•I wanna be the woman that he can tease and joke and goof around with; and also the shoulder he can cry on when the pain of life hits him. 

•I wanna be the woman that he looks at on our wedding day and thinks that he couldn't possibly love me any more; and still the woman that he looks at 60 years later and realizes how wrong he was then. 

•I wanna be the woman that he grabs the hand of, and promises to never let go, when I'm young and full of life; and still the woman he makes the same promise to when I'm old, frail, and deteriorating. 

•I wanna be the woman that he promises before God to love and cherish; and the same woman that he fulfills that promise to. 

•I wanna be the woman that my future husband has always prayed for; and the same woman that never stops praying for her man. 

Cleansed

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Her heart rate quickened with sensual lust. 

Her eyes lit up like fire. 

Her breathing sped, her gaze was fixed-

On that, her carnal desire. 

Grit&Grace- Not Just Another Pretty Face~ The Widow, Desperate Yet Obedient

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So here we are with yet another post in our Grit&Grace series! 
Geez, life has been busy lately! I'm tired. I have a headache. But the Lord is faithful. He always provides for our needs according to the dictates of His will, am I right?

He is. His faithfulness and provision are exactly what today's thought is about.

Grit&Grace- Not Just Another Pretty Face~ Rahab, Radically Redeemed

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So, week two of our Thursday Grit&Grace Series! I've been super busy this week, life is crazy like that sometimes; but I've had this week's topic on my heart since LAST week, so here goes...

Ever hear of Rahab? 

The prostitute? Yep, That one!

Colorblind

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Just a little brown-eyed girl.

Just a small-town children's park.

Not much time to play left,

Before it grew real dark.

Barely even six years old,

With pink top and capri.

She had one front tooth missing,

And a bandaid on one knee.

Her pigtails swayed back and forth,

As the swing went slowly "swoosh".

When a little voice piped in-

"Would you like a push?"

Brown eyes met brown eyes

As the two girls met gaze.

To say that they looked alike

Would be untruthful praise.

Yes, they both had brown eyes.

Both were beautiful and kind.

But the only way they could appear the same

Was if you were colorblind.

They were as different as black and white-

And I mean what I say.

But that sure didn't stop those girls

From having fun that day.

Yet here we sit, as a Nation,

Divided up in bits.

One side tries to outdo the other

In who throws bigger fits.

It's racism. It's supremacy.

It's "which life matters more?"

It's "Let's tear down the statues

Cuz what someone did before."

It's "Let's start a protest."

It's "I gotta click this poll."

It's "Both sides fight at riot."

And "Another dead while on patrol."

It's local news t.v.

Covering violence on the rise.

And all for what? What's the game?

The winner gets what prize?

Y'all, we all have eyes, we all have hearts.

We all have hopes and dreams.

We've all been afraid before,

Been hurt by some cruel scheme.

Let me tell you this, my petty friends,

At the conclusion of this game,

No one is superior under a coffin lid;

All skin colors bleed the same.

And in eternity, when judgment comes,

When the Good Lord strips your pride,

He'll look at us, at this whole strife,

And say, "Was it for this I died?"

The love and grace He brought us,

The salvation UNTO ALL,

Leaves NO room for prejudice.

That just ain't our call.

So love one another.

Judge as you wish to be.

For one day, He will make all things right-

In eternity.

Grit&Grace- Not Just Another Pretty Face~ Hannah, Hurting Yet Hopeful

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Hey there! Welcome to the first installment of aHeartinWaiting's weekly series posts. Basically, for those of you that are hearing this idea for the first time, I am endeavoring to begin a weekly posting, on Thursdays, specifically set aside to delve deeper into some of our topics. This will allow us to study and focus on some things for a bit longer than the usual one posting; all while giving me leeway to post as the Spirit leads, like normal. So our Thursday series will be linked together with each other, and yet separate from my other spur-of-the-moment thoughts. Hopefully this will be a more substantial and regular blessing for all y'all awesome readers out there!

ANYWHO! (enough of the public service announcement, am I right?!)

Our first series is entitled "Grit&Grace- Not Just Another Pretty Face". This series will be roughly six weeks long and will focus on the account of a different woman of the Bible each time. We will be delving into the details of the story and really looking at characteristics of each of these women and also how the Lord worked mightily through their lives. I've really been pumped about it ever since the Lord laid the idea on my heart. I pray that it will speak to you as well.

Well, without further ado.... Series1Post1~ Hannah, hurting yet hopeful. 

Take My Hand, Precious Lord

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"Precious Lord, take my hand,

Lead me on, Let me stand.

I am tired. I am weak. I am worn."

[Thomas Andrew Dorsey, 1938]

I am tired. I am weak. I am worn. 

You know, y'all. I really am.

Faithful Servant

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Light; Bright light; so bright it blinded me.

I closed my eyes for a moment, until I could finally see.

When adjusted, I stood in shock. My mouth just hung ajar.

This place, its very essence, gleamed like a brilliant star.

It was huge, and looked so powerful. It just screamed of strength and might.

Not a shadow touched a hidden place; Just pure unhindered light.

My bare feet scraped the golden glass, the ground looked almost clear.

I couldn’t say how long I stood there; a day, a month, a year?

A gentle nudge retracted me from my frozen state of awe.

I shifted gaze and mere words fail to describe all I saw.

A gate so tall I craned my neck; its bars were strong and thick.

It gleamed of gold to suit the place, but I had never questioned it.

It guarded something on the other side, but I really couldn’t see.

The man who stood to my front was, well, much taller than me.

I stood in line with many others, to count I dared not try.

There were men and women; some young, some old, but not a single eye was dry.

Much attention was set on a solemn place, something off to my left.

When I turned, a sob tore through me and I couldn’t catch my breath.

A massive chasm threatened me. It was wide and long and deep.

No railing stood around its edge; its sides, far more than steep.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and I shook without control.

The smell of burning flesh met me and it made my stomach roll.

With a book in hand, an angel stood at the base of that giant gate.

As a person neared they trembled – to learn their eternal fate.

If that book contained the person’s name, written in precious blood,

Then through they’d go, to the other side, tears falling like a flood.

But if that book held no account of that person ransomed back,

Then that chasm proved a horrid place as they begged for what they lacked.

My heart bled with their pleas, they relayed all they’d done:

They’d gone to church, they’d paid their tithes, never murdered anyone.

Some had performed a healing, some had led an altar call,

But not a word made a difference, each one had to fall.

It wasn’t just the “bad people” that were dealt this gruesome hand.

All my life I’d pondered this, but I could finally understand.

Only through the blood of Jesus could you escape this awful lot;

Not through works, not through effort, nor any man-made plot.

My thoughts were interrupted by a very familiar voice.

I heard the angel say “This was all your choice.”

The voice was from my neighbor lady; so perfect, pretty and fit.

Sure. We were friends on Facebook, but goodness! That was it!

We worked so hard to avoid each other that we never spoke at all.

Now here we were, both in line, waiting for our judgment call.

She stood, trembling, at the very front; the angel shook his head.

She fell down on her face and begged “One more chance” instead.

With heart ripped out, I watched with guilt as she was thrown down in the dark.

Maybe if I would’ve shared Jesus, then she would’ve hit the mark?

The line moved up and I rubbed my eyes, that looked just like my aunt!

She had always been a Christian woman. She won’t go down. She can’t.

But the angel shook his head, and again I stood in shock.

She tried to run. She pulled the gate, but those golden bars were locked.

She was thrown down in and my heart tore, and I this time I felt faint.

She was gone forever, to eternal pain. I’d always thought she was a saint.

One by one the line moved up. Like molasses, it was slow.

A seldom few had made the mark, but countless were told “No.”

I knew their faces, I’d touched their lives, I’d had the chance to share.

But oftentimes, more so than not, I hadn’t even cared.

My mind relived every microsecond, where I let darkness win.

I remembered every little moment that I caved in to sin.

Every time that I had lived for self, every evil thought I’d entertained,

Each blessing that I had given up, each joy traded in for pain.

Looking back, those little things, meant way more than I’d thought.

Now I was out of time and my secret sins were caught.

As my turn grew closer, and I watched with pain, I conceived the very worst.

I hadn’t lived like I should and thus by it I was cursed.

Nearer and nearer my turn came and more and more fell.

Had my name been called? Had someone spoken? I couldn’t even tell.

I dropped to my knees, then flat on the ground; hands covering my face.

I had no right to claim any portion of this grace.

I deserved that deep pit, that separation, my whole life wreaked of shame.

I was drowning in my own guilt when I heard them say my name.

I couldn’t move. My strength was gone. I was just too weak.

“My Child” a voice said, and I couldn’t even speak.

My mouth went dry and my throat constricted as I looked up at Him.

His eyes were soft, His touch was sweet, His face not sad nor grim.

He picked me up and carried me. My tears ran down unchecked.

He set me down most gently, but He wasn’t finished yet.

He stroked my cheek and I could feel the scars that still marred His hand,

He bore them all, every wicked mark, in this perfect, sinless land.

“My child,” He said. “Why do you cry? Why are you troubled so?”

“Because, my Lord, I have seen my sin. It’s so great. I really know.

My hope of heaven was met on earth. That’s all that I have earned;

That pit, eternal suffering, if only I had learned.”

I couldn’t speak, the sobs too strong.  I could only hang my head.

He spoke, I didn’t hear him and asked “What was that You said?”

“Precious child, My child, My blood has purchased you.

Your sin was forgiven when I died on that cross, but all of that you knew.

You’ve seen your sin for what it really is. You finally know its weight.

You’ve seen yourself as God saw you, in that wretched, blackened state.

But when you believed on Me, and really changed, He saw your filth no more.

When He looked at you, He saw Me instead, your admittance then was sure.

As you walked, as you journeyed forth, you certainly did fall down.

You chose to sin, you denied My name, My smile turned to frown.

You hurt My heart, you turned from Me, you worshipped other things.

You turned your eyes from hurting souls, and your pride could rival kings.

But My love for you has never died, and when you came running back,

I picked you up and cleaned you off and placed you back on track.

You had ups and downs, good times and bad; and while, Yes, you did things wrong.

Your heart was soft, you tried so hard, and you grew. You’ve come along.

So no more tears. No more crying. Wipe them all away.

For through that gate, I’ve made your home. You’ll join Me there today.”

He held me tight, and I felt such peace. He said “You deserve it.”

Once through those gates, He looked at me, “Well done my faithful servant.”

Elecia Hoffman 1/13/15

Come

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Sometimes life just seems to hit you like crazy storm, doesn't it? Like, all of a sudden you're being slammed by pounding hail and torrential downpour. You can do nothing but stand there, in the very center of it, and feel the full force of the torrent. Those moments are hard, I know. But sometimes, in the very middle of the rage of that storm, something really beautiful happens.

Don't Waste The Coast

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"Now don't waste the coast on the way down. Keep peddling, even on the downhill. It'll make going uphill that much easier."

My dad's words echoed through my mind as I began to descend the small country back road hill on my two-wheeled bicycle. It felt unnecessary to continue moving my peddles as I coasted down the big hill, but I kept on it anyway. "Don't waste the coast." "Don't waste the coast." "Don't waste the coast."

It Ain't...

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It ain't about your picnics, 

Not your bash-out barbecues. 

It ain't about your Stars and Stripes, 

Or your red and white and blues. 

It ain't about your big parades, 

It ain't even 'bout the flag. 

No, Memorial Day ain't a day

Of which anyone can brag. 

Yes Memorial Day is a holiday,

But that does not suffice. 

It's a time to honor all the lives

That paid the highest price. 

To remember all the heartbeats

That stopped right in their prime. 

To honor all the fallen,

That stood for us over time. 

To remember every patriot. 

The first ones to take up arms. 

For every soldier that ever stood,

Between us and harm. 

When they fell on the battlefield,

When their life-blood stained the ground. 

They proved duds didn't matter-

Blue, grey, green, or brown. 

Through all the wars we've been in,

Through every battle fought,

They proved freedom isn't free

And it's never fully bought. 

Each bead of sweat sustained it. 

Each drop of blood ensured. 

And with every life laid down,

Your freedom is secured. 

Honor those that fell for you, thank a veteran. 

The Climb

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Falling. She was falling.

She could feel her body plummeting helplessly as her weight pulled her mercilessly toward whatever surface may rest below her. If, indeed, there was any surface down there at all. Perhaps her fate would be sealed in an eternal plunge downward.

Oh how she hoped not! Her arms flailed about her as she grasped for something, anything, with which to catch herself. Her fingers groped through the worthless air searching for a hold. Her feet kicked at nothing hoping to meet some surface to support themselves on.

With each flail about, each grasp at emptiness, her heart sank with desperation. Her mind relived the critical seconds before her fall- the very seconds that sent her spiraling downward. She recalled the treacherous climb thus far; a sheer mountain cliff with walls so steep they almost appeared to be going completely vertical.

Her climb began with what seemed like an eternity ago, when her Father lifted her up and placed her on that mountain cliff. He stood behind her and made sure that she had good places for her hands and feet to grip. With His arms outstretched, He watched as she ever-so-slowly began to move one hand, letting go of that first grip and reaching for another. Once the first hand was secured again, she lifted her opposite foot and found a new rest for it. Eventually all of her limbs had moved from their original holds and were now secured in new ones. With a triumphant smile, she turned her head around and beamed at her Father. "Look Daddy! Look how far I've gone already!"

Her Father smiled back, His arms never leaving their outstretched position, "Yes, Baby! You're doing so well! Daddy is right here if you need Me. I won't leave you to do this alone."

She had loved climbing in that moment. In those times when her Father was close, it had felt like nothing could ever happen to her. She felt safe and encouraged.

Lately, however, her Father had felt distant. She couldn't see Him. She could barely make out His voice. He had encouraged her to keep climbing, to go farther and farther away from the comfort of her direct view of Him. Eventually, she could no longer even make out His form. It was in that moment that she began to feel very anxious about the whole thing. She had tried to recall the words her Father had told her. She had attempted to recollect even just pieces of His wisdom and advice. Nothing came.

Instead her heart began to match the looming darkness of the above skyline. She had watched with fear as the bright summer sun had been overshadowed by the dark clouds of an impending storm. She clung helplessly to the side of that cliff as the rain pelted her back and the wind questioned her grip. It was almost as if that storm had been mocking her- laughing at her for each flaw in her posture, grip, and purpose. Was she doing the right thing? Why had she come this far? Wouldn't it have been safer to stay closer to the ground? What did her Father actually say?

These questions began to grow louder and louder in her head. The rain was stinging her shoulders and slamming into her temples. The wind had picked up severely and she could feel her grip pulling loose. Sweat beads had begun to form on her forehead despite the chill in the air. She couldn't let go now! She was way too far up for all of that!

However with every howl of that wind, every slamming drop of rain, every mocking question that flashed through her mind, her resolve weakened and her doubt grew. She felt utterly helpless and completely alone. She strained her ears to hear her Father's voice above the overpowering noise of the storm. Nothing. Did He not care that she was enduing this storm alone? Did He leave and forget she was up here? Why would her loving Father put her through this?

"He left you alone. You can't do this."

That was it. With that one gust of mocking wind she lost her secure footing. Her grip loosened and she went flying backward. She began falling, flailing, groping, and grasping at nothing with that statement rolling through her mind.

...And here she was. Waiting, wondering when, if ever, this falling would cease and she would meet her demise against the hard ground she began on. Almost as if physics could read her thoughts, her body suddenly slammed to a halt. All the adrenaline from falling immediately vanished, taking with it her ability to breathe. Her chest quickly raised and lowered searching for air to fill her lungs again. She audibly inhaled deeply once her breath returned and she fell back against the surface below her to recover from the ordeal. As she lay there, she assessed her physical person. Nothing felt broken. In the dimness of the available lighting she eyed her body up and down. No blood. No large gashes. She could feel the formation of some nasty bruises, and knew for a fact that quite a few abrasions were present, but she could move and she was alive. She would feel this later, for sure though!

She slowly sat herself upright and rested her forearms on her knees. The storm was still raging around her. She was soaked to the bone, battered, beaten, and completely alone.

"He left you alone. You can't do this."

Those few words swirled around and around in her mind. Tears mixed with raindrops and ran down her cheeks unchecked.

She lifted her face to the sky and screamed "How could You?! How could You just let me fall like that? You were supposed to be here for me! You weren't supposed to leave me! How could You?!"

Sobs overtook her weakened form as the storm raged on around her. "You put me on this mountain! You encouraged me to climb! Then you just leave me?!"

She fell forward, flat on her face, and lay there for no other reason than pure weakness. She replayed the audio of that mocking voice in her head over and over. "He left You alone. You can't do this. He left you alone. You can't do this. He left you alone. You can't do this."

"Daddy is right here if you need Me. I won't leave you to do this alone." The words of her Father suddenly rose to her thoughts. She slowly lifted her head only to slam it right back down. The darkness that had come with the storm was gone and the sunlight was too bright for her ill-adjusted eyes.

"Daddy?" Her voice cracked in her throat. Again lifting her head, she called "Daddy? Daddy are You there?"

Then she saw Him. He was sitting right beside where she had flopped herself. His eyes looked down on her and He smiled. He reached out His hand and gently brushed the hair out of her eyes. Then His capable arms slowly lifted her upright until she sat tall beside Him.

Her eyes grew large at seeing Him once more and she threw her arms around Him. "Oh Daddy! You came back!"

His face was serious as He said to her "Baby, I never left you. I've been with you the entire time."

She pulled back from her embrace "But...but the storm! It was so terrible! I listened and listened, but I couldn't hear You! Then I fell! I fell from way up there!" She pointed.

He pulled her closer. "I was here. You couldn't hear My words because you allowed to storm to talk over me. You allowed your fears and doubts to drown out My voice"

Realization dawned on her. Not once had she ever called out to Him. Never did she truly listen for is voice or take the time to recall His instructions. She was too caught up in her storm. Tears began to fall down her cheeks once more. "Oh Daddy! I'm so sorry! I'm sorry I doubted You. Sorry I listened to other voices and not Yours."

His eyes were smiling once more. "I forgave you a long time ago."

She laid her head on His lap and allowed Him to comfort her. Her body ached with the aftermath of that fall. She was still soaked with rain and covered in mud, but she was safe in the arms of her Father.

"He left you alone. You can't do it." At the recollection of that voice her head shot up.

"They were right about one thing. I can't do it. Not without You." She told her Father.

He stood pulling her up with Him and spoke, His voice clear and gentle. "I am always here for you. I won't ever leave you to do this alone. Remember that, even when you can't hear me."

He pulled her once more into the comfort of His arms. "Now let's keep climbing."

Sometimes I Cry

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So, I'm a good Christian. At least that's what I tell myself.

Crayola

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Grey. Everything around him bore the lifeless mask of descending hues of grey. He stared blankly around his office cubicle and noted the second hand on the analog clock ticking slowly. One minute seemed to take an hour to drone by. Tick, tick, tick. The steady rhythm did nothing to ease the dull ache in the back of his skull. He needed to focus somewhere else, that clock was going to drive him mad. He straightened a wry paperclip on his desk. Blew dust off the screen of his desktop computer. Fiddled with the cup of pens. Then he set to work on the stack of papers staring at him from the center of the wooden top. 

Appointment reminders, deadline warnings, and printed emails. His palms grew sweaty. Tick. Facts sheets, newspaper articles, Tick. Tick. His heart rate increased. Invoice notices, to-do lists, Tick, grey. The man's breaths now came in shallow bursts. Tick, grey, shuffle, Tick. Tick. Tick.

The man jumped to his feet. Knocking the chair back a bit, he reached for his phone and his hat, then fled the tiny office. It's close enough to lunch. May as well take it in the park. He figured. Lightly shaking his head in an attempt to clear it from the mini meltdown, the man headed out the door.

Clutching his fast food bag in one hand while holding his cell to his ear with the other, the man headed toward the only available seat he could find- an iron park bench not even a block away from his office. He seated himself in the concrete covered park, hung up the phone, and proceeded to unwad the crumpled paper bag. Shoving a lukewarm fry into his mouth, he surveyed his surroundings. Concrete sidewalks. Concrete fountains. Iron benches. Faded black lampposts. Icky grey circles on the ground where someone had discarded their unwanted chewing gum. The man sighed long and hard. More hues of grey. The made-to-order grease in his mouth lost its flavor. Such was how life would always look, it appeared. 

A warm breath of air rushed by the man, reminding him that the chill of winter was quickly being replaced. He noted the areas to either side of the concrete sidewalks where the dead grass would soon look less dead. He quietly snorted to himself as he watched a little girl sitting in the grass just under the "Do Not Step On Grass" sign. She was loudly singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" while plucking individual stalks of the semi-dead material.

That is if you can even consider it singing. The disgruntled man murmured while chewing. He furrowed his eyebrows as he assessed the scene playing out before him. What mother would let her child walk out of the house looking like that? He rolled his eyes referring to the multi-colored outfit the child was sporting. Rainbow striped leggings, covered by a ballet-tutu-style hot pink skirt, a sparkly purple long-sleeve shirt, a blue vest with the word CUTE on the back, and a pink knit hat covering her head. Why, the kid was the epitome of colorful right down to her mismatched socks and light up green sneakers. Shaking his head, the man turned his body to face the other direction. Miss Crayola Explosion was making his already overstimulated brain pound even harder. 

He had just shoved the last bite of his once frozen burger into his mouth and was beginning to wad the bag up into a tiny ball when he felt a light tug on his jacket sleeve. He turned slowly, completely clueless as to what dare disturb the last few precious moments of his reprieve, and found himself staring at the very colorful creature that he had turned away from only moments before. Getting to look at her now from the front, the man first noticed the bright blue of the little girl's eyes in contrast to her overly pale skin. He also took in the sparkly unicorn that threatened to attack him from the front of her shirt and the large rhinestone butterfly that decorated the girl's knit hat. 

Too busy pondering why anyone would want to wear a full-blown knit hat on a warm day like today, the man allowed awkward seconds to pass with the little girl staring at him. His mind drew a blank as he tried to guess what the girl could want. So he finally asked, albeit a bit gruffly, "What do you want?"

The look of hope on the small thing's face never wavered as she innocently raised her left fist. Clutching in between dirty fingers, the small girl held a single dandelion out to him. 

His face grew dark and his brows drew together, "What's that for?" He asked blankly.

She continued holding her fist out to him as her small voice answered "You looked sad. I brought you a flower."

The wad of trash almost dropped from the man's hand. Who did this kid think she was? "Um. Well, I'm not sad and that isn't a flower. It's a weed, kid. Just a weed." The man shook his head in disgust. Geez, what do fairy tales do to kids these days? Somebody's got to wake these kids up to reality. Life's not all rainbows and unicorns all the time. 

The little girl continued standing there and continued holding that grubby little fist out to him. He was becoming impatient and attempted to visually scan the area for the little thing's keeper. She wouldn't leave, so he repeated "It's just a weed." To add emphasis to his mounting frustration. 

The girl's eyes grew serious, and she drew her hand back slightly to assess her tiny offering. The silence lasted only momentarily when she began "You know, Sir? I don't think it is a weed." She raised her eyes to meet his again. "Because, you know, weeds are thorny. Weeds are useless. Weeds are kinda sorta like concrete. They're everywhere and ugly looking." She scuffed her shoe on the sidewalk below her.

The man stared at her as though she were crazy, and the small thing had the nerve to giggle! He was going to respond to her, but she cut him off. 

"No, Sir. This isn't a weed. It's pretty and yellow. It's a flower. Bees like it. Butterflies like it. I like it. So it's a flower. Plus!" Her mouth turned up into a wide toothless grin. "Plus, it can make people happy!" Once more she held her treasure out to the him. 

This time he was too dumbfounded to do anything but accept the wilted offering. Mindlessly he tucked it into the pen pocket of his button-up. The little girl's eyes danced as she looked from her "flower" back up to him. This time she allowed the silence. 

Suddenly, a woman in her early thirties frantically came rushing up behind the girl. The look of relief in the woman's eyes was evident as she proclaimed "Oh! Maggie! There you are! I've been hunting for you everywhere!" She reached for the girl and gave the man the once over. The relief flashed to panic, but only briefly. The man could understand what with the way the world was these days. It sure as anything wasn't a world off an Andy Griffith set anymore. The woman knelt down and turned the girl toward herself appearing to check the kid over. Then she stood, straightened her own top, and addressed the man. "I'm terribly sorry if my daughter bothered you, Sir. She can get very excited."

The man waved his hand and quickly said "No, it's fine. She and I were having quite the conversation."

The woman laughed with embarrassment, took her daughter's hand, and left as quickly as she appeared. As she walked away she lifted the knit hat from her daughter's head, revealing a completely bald scalp. She kissed the girl's bare head, gently squeezed her to her side, and then replaced the pink butterfly piece where it had been. The man's lunch turned in his stomach. Poor Miss Crayola Explosion.

Quietly, he made his way back to his office. Sitting down at his desk, the massive stimulation of paperwork threatened once again to overtake him. He covered his heart with his hand in a knee-jerk reaction to stave off the impending feeling of doom. When he did so, his fingers brushed something not pocket-like. The dandelion. 

In one seamless movement, he headed back out of his cubicle, down the hall, and over to the stand-up water cooler. He returned moments later with a plastic cup half filled with water and set it in the center of his desk. Then he gently placed the wilted little dandelion into the water and smiled. Crayola was right. He chuckled to himself. It is a flower.

For the rest of the month he took his lunch break at the same time on the same park bench. Everyday Crayola would come walking through holding her mother's hand. The man would watch as the woman would sit at a bench a few feet away from his and quietly pull out a book or knitting project while her daughter played in the grass around her. Each day the little girl would pick a dandelion and bring it to him and then, when his break was over, he would put the new flower into a fresh cup of water that sat waiting on his desk. The routine had gotten so comfortable that the man flew through his work each day just waiting to go on lunch break. Each day the signs and sounds of spring were more prominent. The grass was getting greener. The sky bluer. The birds could be heard on the powerlines. And now, everywhere the man looked, he saw dandelions. Flowers. 

As the month wore on, he began to notice small changes in the little girl. First it was just that her singing was quieter than usual, then she didn't sing at all. One day her pale face seemed even more pale and she appeared skinnier than usual too. The worry lines on her mother's face appeared deeper, as well. Still they came and still she would bring him a freshly picked dandelion each day. Sometimes he would give her a small piece of candy in exchange for it. Or he'd pick his own single wildflower for her and trade it. No matter how sick Crayola seemed, her eyes always danced when she held her dandelions. 

One day he sat on the bench, focused on stabbing his salad with the chintzy plastic fork when he felt a familiar tug on his sleeve. He turned to find the little girl holding out her dandelion, but his breath hitched at the sight of her. Here stood his little Crayola Explosion with an oxygen cannula tucked in a loop into her nose, behind both ears, and meeting together under her chin. Behind her stood her mother, eyes teary, holding a pink paisley bag with the connected canister. Before he left that day, Crayola took her frail little arms and wrapped them around his neck. She squeezed tightly and he returned it. The threesome shared a smile and parted ways.

On Thursday, the man got stuck in a meeting. He anxiously checked his watch and tapped his toe praying that the speaker would shut up soon. The minutes again turned to hours. He rapped his finger on his notepad and loosened his necktie. Checking his watch, he groaned. At this rate he'd miss lunch altogether. He'd never missed lunch once. He just couldn't today. Not any day. He continued though the rest of the meeting bouncing as if he needed a bathroom break. He made no attempt to hide his anxiety. His only priority was getting to that park bench. He hadn't the faintest of idea how many dandelions that girl had left in her, but he wanted to be there for every single one.

Finally, it was over and he bolted for the door. He literally ran the near block to the bench, even forgetting his lunch back in his cubicle. Stopping, breathless, he searched the park for any sign of Crayola or her mom. Nothing. His heart fell. He'd missed them. 

Checking his watch and begrudgingly acknowledging the lateness of the hour, he turned to head back to his cubicle. Almost subconsciously, his eyes fell to his usual park bench. Across the iron bars that made up the seat laid a single dandelion. Tears pooled in the corners of the man's eyes as he bent to pick it up. Tucking the flower into the pocket of his shirt, he vowed not to be late tomorrow.