The tradition in many churches is to bring flowers on Easter. They are a tribute to the resurrection. Bright hyacinths and fragrant lilies arrive in their springtime splendor. My girls and John were there to accept them from little girls in frilly dresses, and boys in dapper pants. One child handed over a fistful of violets, probably picked that morning. Their smiles are the best, feeling generous with their potted tulips. I am not sure whether the children give any thought to what happens to their bright gifts once they let go. But I know the secret. 

 

The next day John and I spend a few hours together. With a list of names a bunch of us head out, a box of flowers in the trunk. People who have endured medical snafus, or a death in the family, or are octogenarians answer the door to find someone bringing an armful of color and scent. 

 

One of the women we visited was quite pleased to see us. She invited us in for tea, and showed us her current crewel project. We chatted about her grandchildren, and she allowed me to feed her bunny a carrot. It was lovely. 

 

Another great grandmother was not inside when we knocked. We found her outside in her vegetable garden, which is amazing. If she was added to the list because her energy is waning, no one told her. 

 

One family who lost a loved one last spring were outside playing. We chatted a bit, and I asked to hear a story about the one who is gone. Flowers are a poor substitute for a breathing brother, but maybe it is something. 

 

A couple of people did not welcome us in, which is understandable. Not everyone is ready at a moment's notice for company, and we respected their privacy. They accepted the flowers graciously and we said goodbye. 

 

It is possible that some recipients unconsciously give John and me the credit for their vase full of daffodils. But it was handed to us. Not only that, the preschoolers who carried them across the parking lot did nothing to provide them either. One could pretend that the credit ends with the mother who added the errand to her already bursting preparations. But neither did she cause them to be gorgeous. The farmer in Vermont or Lancaster tilled the soil, and watered faithfully. But can it be accurate to give him or her credit for creamy whiteness emerging from brown dirt? 

 

God is the source of beauty. And generosity. Even though that detail is sometimes omitted in the credits. What is marvelous, is the seemingly inexhaustible supply of joy that comes when gifts are passed from one hand to another. Even violets plucked from the yard.