“I know who it is!”
My favorite line from the movie “The Miracle Maker,” spoken by a girl—a girl who knows Jesus when she sees him. Today, that girl is me, after three years in the tomb of my own woundedness.
Last night I saw the woman my daughter calls the Butterfly Lady, so named because her yard of native plants attracts many butterflies.
A friend asked the Butterfly Lady, “How’re your flowers?”
“They’re fine. No—they’re beautiful,” said the Butterfly Lady. “They’re the best they’ve ever been.”
“Even with the drought?” the friend asked.
“MmHm. You know, all my flowers are natives. And they’ve been in the ground so long that they’ve become almost completely drought-tolerant. I think they have good roots,” the Butterfly Lady said.
I’ve often compared cancer to drought. It’s death by dessication. When that rare piece of good news comes, it’s like unexpected rain, even two-tenths of an inch. And that’s when you find out if your flowers have roots. If they do, then even two-tenths of an inch perks them right up.
Guess I have roots after all.
