Irises are not my favourite flower. They’re messy, loud, out of control things, that hold little attraction to me.
And yet, there is something comforting about this budding iris—maternal, even. In it I see tenderness, care, and hope. I see the hand and heart of God.
I am reminded that those judgements I am prone to make are folly and that there is always more to something than I see at first.
Instructions for living a life:
Tell about it.