Proteas & Pointlessness

+ what made me snort-laugh through my nose, March recs, and the delightful Tabs on what she learned when she was afraid to love for fear of loss.

Hey friend,

Flowers make me think of death. 

As soon as you cut a flower, it starts to die. 

It seems so pointless. 

My grandparents came to Australia from England in the seventies. They had already left their home, Spain, for work in England. Born at the end of the Spanish Civil War, which came on the heels of World War II, they grew up in a community recovering from the ravages of war. It took them six weeks to travel to Australia on a boat with their three children. Nanny worked as a cleaner at Graylands Hospital and Poppy worked for the water authority digging trenches. 

They worked hard, to learn the language, to get ahead. In his eighties Poppy is proud that he never took a handout from the government for anything. Poppy could not afford shoes. He worked as a pastry chef apprentice from eleven years old, so he could pay his night school fees and give his money to his mother. 

I spent a lot of time with my Spanish grandparents growing up: sitting on Nanny’s red laminate kitchen counter, beating eggs while she made tolta; napping on the floral couch; Poppy force-feeding me papaya from his garden; trawling swap meets for bargains with Nanny; and Poppy yelling at us to “put your bloody shoes on!” Their house (and fridge) was an extension of my own. Nanny picked me up from school, and on holidays my brother and I would spend the two weeks at their house. Even now, they don’t waste anything. Nanny sends me home with leftovers in washed out meat containers covered in cling wrap. Poppy grew a vegetable garden in retirement but would have never dreamed of growing flowers. 

In the last few years, I’ve quietly taken up arranging flowers. I bought floristry tape on Amazon and immediately hid it in a drawer in case anyone thought I was serious about this. I cut roses from my garden, sneak a stem or two of silverleaf eucalyptus from my neighbours’ tree, stick floristry tape on my vase, and spend five frivolous minutes arranging flowers. But only when no one is in the house to see me. I cannot emphasise enough how ridiculous I feel every time I do this. I tell myself I am not working hard enough: the laundry is waiting, there is a dishwasher to unpack, and lunches to make. I can imagine my grandparents' reaction to this detour from productivity. Nanny cleans her bathroom daily. My inner critic rages further that it is stupid to care about flowers. There’s no point to them. They’re just going to die, and then I’ll have another job to chuck them away. Why bother? 

Photo by Nadezhda Moryak on Pexels.

I was talking to a woman helping out in the church crèche the other week. Turns out Michelle is a self-taught florist, running her own business specialising in Australian natives. I’ve started growing proteas recently (I know they’re not technically natives, but they should be). As much as I love them, I don’t want to pay All The Dollars for one. I just want to cut one from the garden and a few stems of silver leaf eucalyptus from a neighbours’ tree. Baby’s breath would complement proteas and eucalyptus perfectly, but again, I’m cheap. It’s $5 a stem and finicky to grow. So, of course, I took the opportunity to ask a captive florist a question. Michelle told me that there is a small type of Australian native called Emile that would complete this arrangement. But then she smiled and shared that what she loves the most is how intricate each of these flowers are. It blows my mind that God would make something so beautiful “that tomorrow is thrown into the fire” (Matthew ‭6:28-30‬). It made me think of this quote from G.K. Chesterton: 

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning “Do it again,” to the sun; and every evening “Do it again,” to the moon. It may not be an automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately but has never tired of making them. It may be that he has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” 

What if God makes each protea individually?

What if their purpose is to be beautiful?

What if beauty points us to God? 

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.

My best conversations with Henry are when we are walking to school. Probably because neither of us are very good at sitting still. George is contained in the moving baby-jail and Henry is occupied running back and forth collecting rocks and leaves and treasures to hide in the bottom of the pram. Since I need both hands on the pram, I often don’t have my phone. 

This is the time for all the questions. 

“Is this a deciduous tree?” 

“Yeah.”

“Is this a non-deciduous tree?” 

“I’m not sure about that one, we’ll have to look at it in winter.”

“Is this a deciduous tree?” 

“I think so.”

“Did God make trees?” 

“Yep.” 

“Did God make the sun?”

“Yep.”

“Did God make the road?” 

“Uhhh…. He made the people who made the road and all the raw materials for the road like the sand and rocks and then those people just mixed up stuff God made.” 

“Did God make flowers?”

“Yeah.”

“How many flowers did God make?”

“Too many to count, Hen. You can say thanks to God for the flowers.” 

Then he lifted his bucket-hat clad head to look up at the purple bougainvillaea curling over the asbestos fence, yelled, “THANKS GOD!” and ran off down the path. 

I stare at the fragile flower gently bobbing in the breeze. My goodness. That’s the point. Beautiful things point to God so we can say thanks (Romans 1:20-21). We acknowledge that we did not make any of this, not even ourselves, and we only enjoy it at his good pleasure. What a common grace, a kindness, that it is beautiful. 

All the things I’m hustling for? Achievement. Approval. Productivity. None of it lasts. 

“All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades when the breath of the Lord blows on it; surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.” (‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭40:6-8‬). 

Of course, by this point, Henry is well and truly gone down the path. We are late and here I am lost in my thoughts about a flower. I run with the pram, my slides flip-flapping on the pavement after him. Later, walking out the school gates, I think of Nanny and Poppy’s legacy: their strong work ethic. They are not afraid to work hard. But I wonder what it would be like if what my boys, or my grandchildren, remember about my mothering is not my hard work? If appreciating beauty and thanking God is what they remember about my mothering… What would that be like? 

I’m Loving

I don’t know what I’ve been doing with my life that I did not know that Nora Ephron, the woman who wrote When Harry Met Sally and You’ve Got Mail, was also a journalist and essayist. I Feel Bad About My Neck made me snort-laugh through my nose. She’s neurotic and hilarious and I love her.

Margaret Fitzgerald pressed this book into my hands the other week and I am so glad she did. It flat out blew my mind. Just, wow. If anyone has recommendations for Christian biographies/missionary stories, please let me know in the comments.

I read Daisy Jones and The Six a few years ago about a 70s rock band. I told everyone I knew about it. So, I’m loooooving the series on Amazon.

Shameless plug: I’ve just joined these delightful ladies as a monthly contributor. I always thought poetry was Not My Thing… But my goodness it is fun!

The Why, Who, and When of Part-Time Poets!

Give us discernment in the face of troubling news reports. Give us discernment to know when to pray, when to speak out, when to act, and when to simply shut off our screens and our devices, and to sit quietly in your presence, casting the burdens of this world upon the strong shoulders of the one who alone is able to bear them up.

A delightful perspective on messing up in the kitchen.

I thought about this for daysssss

michellevwindsor

A post shared by Michelle Windsor (@michellevwindsor)

I know that sharing an article how to style straight leg jeans without looking like Gen Z basically means that I am now old. But an actual teenager asked me the other day whether I know what Snapchat is and I was like, “how old do you think I am?!” before I realised that I am more than double his age. So… We are not in Kansas anymore. I don’t want to turn into Regina’s Mum in Mean Girls.

And, in case you missed it:

What I Learned When: I was scared to love for fear of loss

Remember: tell me all the best Christian biographies in the comments. I’m on a roll.

Love,

Bec