‘Children are gardens for mothers to tend’

The warm days we’ve been enjoying have turned my attention and affection to springtime. My children are delighted to have me outside with them more often.

I’m busy checking for baby leaves, raking the stringy brown grass in a desperate attempt to help every single blade reach for sunlight, and chopping up half-frozen spots in preparation for more wildflower seeds. I’ve switched out our Easter decorations for sunflower garlands and yellow calico tablecloths.

Our morning wakeup music has changed from grand religious choirs to Vivaldi’s “Spring” and Copland’s “Appalachian Spring.” My solitary, early morning chores can now be completed with natural light from open curtains. This is a cherished time for me, these hours in the house my husband built nail by nail, as I prepare spaces for our family rhythm to begin humming.

Several years ago I began listening to “Praying the Rosary with Saint Therese” while I tiptoed about folding laundry, setting out breakfast supplies, and sipping coffee. The comforting prayers, familiar Biblical stories, and calming music transformed my mornings.

“Children are gardens for mothers to tend,” sweet Therese informed me as I contemplated family life during the recitation of the Luminous Mysteries. Without making a conscious decision to abandon the flow of prayers, my mind rested upon that sentence while the CD continued praying.

Clare is definitely a tropical rose. The thought made me smile. She requires mulching, pruning and beetle-checking; that is, supervision, discipline and a little babying.

Her blooms delight the senses, and there are some thorns as well. But the strength and fragility of this girl child make for a marvelous sight. These reflections regarding my daughter occurred almost involuntarily during my daybreak work.

Then came a desire to pick flowers representing our other kids — my own glorious bouquet. So I began a mental exercise that would continue for several days as I plucked any quiet moments alone to mull over flowers and children. As more babies were born, I thought of more to match them, so it has now been years.

Fireweed is the first to appear after geological distress, certainly fire, but also upheaval by heavy equipment. It defiantly stands tall and bright atop blackened or destroyed mounds of earth. Is it prettier because its home is not, or is it simply so attractive that the ugliness is hidden?

This is Rees, our child born with the distress of cystic fibrosis. Is his personality splendid in comparison to a scary diagnosis, or is he simply so wonderful that the trouble of cystic fibrosis is overshadowed? It doesn’t matter; he thrives.

Here in Alaska, fuchsias are favored in hanging basket collections, happily greeting guests at front doors. These exotic looking flowers require just a bit of daily maintenance — a little water and a little pinching of shriveled blooms.

Genial John is our fuchsia. Looking good and socializing are his energy. A pinch of special attention is mandatory each day for maximum color, like an invitation to make cookies, stroll through the woods, or flip through a catalogue together. We are happy to oblige.

Yarrow is a special weed, and Ian fits the botanical description perfectly. This spunky little flowering plant appears almost without notice. (Ask me about his birth story!) It brightens meadow edges; it has numerous tiny blossoms; and it even has medicinal properties.

This carefree boy is unassuming, vigorous and heals my occasional sad heart. He is the one who does not quickly toss out, “’Night, Mom; love you” as the other children, but consistently turns his attention away from nighttime books for a good hug.

Little Luke, our dandelion, is a sunny tumble of a boy who requires only the basics to flourish gaily, like a close-by mommy, a full tummy, and lots of siblings to run with. Like the infamous wildflower, he often appears in places not of our choosing and at inopportune times. Like our bed. Or the bathroom drawer filled with cotton balls and Qtips. Or the rising bread dough.

But he’s a dandy fellow, and we just scoop him up and redirect his blooming attentions.

The wild purple geranium attracts bees, butterflies and birds, just like my Joseph. Whenever someone greets me with, “Your family is delightful to watch in church; that one son of yours is so cute and friendly ...” I know they mean Joseph.

People are always attracted to him. We’ve called him little Santa for years; he is round and jolly and he really does shake when he laughs like a bowl full of jelly.

Adah is our babies’ breath, perfectly mixing with all the flowers. Also with cystic fibrosis, she beautifies our family with her sweet strength and loveliness.

My garden is a fragrant, riotous blend of colors, shapes, smells and properties. It is the only one like it in the world, and I am honored to be its gardener.

May I delight in it every day, for only God knows when one may wilt and join the Creator. Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gifts of springtime and flowers, of family and children, of homes and rosaries.