Of Buttercups

As I was driving this morning, I stopped at a light.  I had my Hillsong CD playing while I surveyed the landscape around me to pass the time.  Scattered along the highway were empty cola cans, crushed fast-food bags,  a tire remnant. 

And then I noticed the Buttercups.  Dainty, pink flowers fluttering softly in the Texas wind.  In stark contrast to their polluted surroundings,  they stood fragile yet powerful, a sign of beauty among the muck and mire.

I was immediately transported back to fond childhood moments at the farm where my family and I spent nearly every weekend.  It was a time of fun and adventure for my siblings and me, a time of therapeutic renewal and more work  for my already hard-working parents.

It was a time of Sunday lunches made with homemade recipes, real butter, homegrown vegetables; all of it sprinkled generously with a grandmother’s love.  Of a father’s hands stained with tractor grease and smelling of oil that you long to breathe in. Of a grandfather’s approving laugh as you show him your latest mud sculpture or help him sneak the contraband cookie his wife told him he couldn’t have.  Of a mother’s embrace after a skinned knee and the kiss to soothe the pain. 

Of warm weather, of doggie breath, of bare feet, of bulging fig trees.  Of chicken houses, of tree-climbing, of fireflies.  Of fishing, of cow patties, of clothes lines and dirty hands.

Of family.

Of a good life.

Of Buttercups.