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.