Goldenrods hold a special place in my heart.
They were the first flowers my husband ever gave me. Now I get to watch them bloom every September.
It’s become a sort of unspoken tradition to point them out whenever we see them—growing in open fields, by corn, on hillsides, by highways. Everywhere you look this time of year, you’ll spot them. At least here in the Midwest.
They’re a memento of the (official) beginning of our love story.
Four years ago today, I (a nervous wreck) swung the door of my college apartment open to greet him (another nervous wreck) for the first time. He stood there, waiting to be invited in, holding up a small bunch of goldenrods.
Of course I let him in, and our story began. Fast forward six months and we were engaged. Eight more after that and we were married.
I guess the goldenrods did the trick and I’ll hold them close to my heart forever. A reminder that love is possible as long as you keep choosing it, in a world that oftentimes urges you to choose yourself.
The following poem is a retelling of that story.
September 15th If Abraham had been in North America would God’s lips have declared: Your descendants will be as numerous as the goldenrods in September?* Fields filled like a shimmering sea, spilling over onto highways and trails where broken feet do not tread lightly. On the day we met, you stopped your Volkswagen rabbit on the side of a busy road to pick a bundle of that gold. That simple clump, the first bouquet to come from your heart to mine— made up of flowers in the wild. Should I have known they’d be prophetic? A message wrapped in yellow blooms: Let our love spill over, too, on to a world where others do not tread lightly and seek to crush its verity under their feet. So we did, and still do. - r.e.g. * Reference to Genesis 26:4 and to my husband if you're reading this, I love you. May we always remember the goldenrods.
Te amo para siempre 💗
So thankful the Lord gave you to each other. ❤️