The first bloom finally appeared.

Over a year ago, Youngest Daughter had chosen flower seed packets. Don’t ask me what they were. I told her to follow the directions and turned her loose.

I’ll have no micromanaged flower bed. Let the children and the Lord above determine what grows.

The only flowers we saw last year were some tall and leggy overgrown zinnias, and all of them were shades of pink. No variety in color. No vibrant oranges, yellows, or purples. 

It might as well have been the flower bed of the Barbie Dreamhouse, until a strong wind of a summer thunderstorm bent them over. Then it looked more like a scene from Children of the Corn.

But at the front of the bed, along the left side, were some weedy-looking mystery sprouts. Because of the haphazard approach to the planting efforts, I left them alone. 

They might actually be something.

The plants grew somewhat fuller, the larger leaves’ serrated edges looking more like the blade of a saw, but no blooms appeared. Should I pull them up? Even a weed will flower and seed to make more of itself, as do all living things, but the plants did not flower last year. 

I continued to watch them through the winter. They stayed green, though somewhat diminished in size. This was no weed, for a weed would have turned brown and withered at the first frost. 

Springtime came this year, and the plants emerged from their dormant state, putting on more leaves, which now had a light fuzzy growth, like a teenage boy doing his best to show his masculinity.

I had seen some plants growing alongside the yard at the edge of the woods that looked like the ones in the flower bed. Maybe I was mistaken, and they were nothing but a bunch of weeds after all.

But there was hope! While buying this year’s batch of new plants and seeds, Youngest Daughter and I noticed a cluster of plants among the selection that looked very similar to the mystery plants in the flower bed. The leaves of the Shasta daisy were the same as what we had noticed at home. We then went to the seed section and found a packet of Shasta daisy seed: 290+ days to bloom. 

A stem soon emerged from the largest plant, and at the end was a small, tight bud. More stems appeared, and then it was only a matter of time.

The first bloom fully opened just over a week ago, and this week several flowers have unfurled their delicate white petals. Every day, they rotate with the sun’s arc over the land, turning toward its light. In the morning they tend to face the east, but in the afternoon, they are turned west. 

But I’d like to file a complaint with the authorities.

I don’t know if they should sell something that doesn’t technically “work” until the second year, especially in our “have it your way” world where delayed gratification means waiting for the air fryer to finish cooking your corndog. I mean, what are we doing, people? What’s the point of selling a product that requires you to have the patience of Job, wondering all along whether you got a defunct weed? 

How many have pulled up the sprouts, thinking they weren’t the real thing? How many would return it to the store, say, if it were a lamp that required you to turn it on and off for an entire year before it actually worked (and the tag told you so, if you bothered to read it).

How many have given up a sport or a hobby because they didn’t see an immediate improvement in their skills? 

How many have given up on a marriage because it feels stagnant, like a weedy mess overgrown with the responsibilities of adult life?

How many have quit jobs because they couldn’t be self-disciplined enough to get into the routine of doing what is necessary and required? The opportunity for advancement never came because they uprooted themselves, looking for a quick fix.

“This job is pointless,” we think. “And I deserve better. I certainly do not deserve to be bored. I must be comfortable, and I should make more money too.”

So they leave, before they’ve even figured out that they might actually “be something.”

On the way out the door, as a parting gift, might I suggest that their bosses give them a pack of Shasta daisy seed, and if they actually plant them, maybe they’ll learn a little more about what it takes to grow.

To wait.

To work.

To bloom.

And that the process, in the end, is all worth it.