He came home with yellow flowers for me the other day,
and my heart began hearkening back,
as the baby’s soft hands reminded me of my grandmother’s.
I was at the hospital holding them
while I prayed the night she died
I studied the yellow flowers around her room
and the ones in the pictures on the wall
and prayed that they’d be like angels
to surround her and take her home
so she’d no longer feel any pain.
Ever since I’ve loved yellow flowers
tiny angels sent to remind me
the Lord hears
even the prayers of a girl who doesn’t yet understand
what it means to follow Jesus or how to ask something just right.
He hears the heart of the pray-er
and though I might try to sit long at His throne with steadfast eloquence
quoting chapter and verse to explain how I think it ought to be
or working words with great reason to say how I hope He’ll move,
those yellow flowers remind me
of the God who hears the prayers
of a hoping teenage girl who isn’t sure who He is
but feels sure enough to believe
flowers can turn into angels
and help someone fly away home.
He let her know He was listening
and her sister chose the program for the funeral
where a white country church
stood warm on a summer’s day,
quietly basking in a field,
full of yellow flowers.