A fine mist clung to the fields as Margaret knelt in the damp soil, her stiff hands trembling slightly from the morning chill. Her knees ached where they pressed into the earth, but she barely noticed. Her heart, heavy with grief, seemed louder than the birdsong at dawn.
It had been six months since Jonathan passed. Six months of empty halls, cold dinners, and the relentless quietness that blanketed her farmhouse like a shroud. She had prayed, wept, demanded answers — and still, all she felt was that hollow ache. Gratitude felt like a galaxy away.
Pulling a wilted rose from the garden bed, she sighed. “What's left to be thankful for?” she whispered into the fog.
As she yanked at another weed, something small caught her eye. A single daisy, blooming stubbornly at the edge of the garden. White petals wide open, bright even in the muted morning. A survivor. Uninvited — and yet beautiful.
Margaret sat back on her heels. There, surrounded by spent blooms and the decay of what once was, the daisy stood defiantly alive. Tears blurred her vision.
Maybe gratitude didn't come from the absence of sorrow, but from the stubborn seeing of grace in its midst.
The thought was like a seed planting itself deep in her spirit. With it came a memory: Jonathan, laughing as he danced clumsily in their kitchen when he burned the bread. Jonathan, scribbling corny notes on sticky pads and hiding them inside cookbooks where she’d find them months later. Jonathan, praying beside her every night, even when life was messy and broke open at the seams.
Love hadn’t died with him. It had lived—and still lived—in the echoes and the memories, in the ghost of laughter she could almost hear when the evenings grew long.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Margaret rose to her feet. She picked the daisy and pressed it to her heart, whispering, “Thank You, Lord.”
Later that afternoon, she opened the worn leather Bible that had sat untouched on her nightstand since the funeral. Its familiar weight comforted her. She turned to Psalm 107:1, the page practically falling open to it: “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His love endures forever.”
Between the memories and that steadfast Word, a slow warmth began to build within her, like the first cracklings of a fireplace on a winter's night.
Margaret didn't suddenly find herself free of sorrow — but alongside the sorrow, blooming like that tiny daisy, was something else: gratitude.
And as the sun slipped lower over the hills, casting the world in molten gold, Margaret sang softly while she worked. It was an old hymn her grandmother had taught her, ragged and tender on her lips. The words floated into the deepening twilight, a gift she offered back to the One who had never truly left her.
Tomorrow, she would bake a pie and invite Sarah and Donna from church over, just like in the old days. Tomorrow, she would look for daisies among the weeds.
And she would find them.
—
Bible Verses:
A fine mist clung to the fields as Margaret knelt in the damp soil, her stiff hands trembling slightly from the morning chill. Her knees ached where they pressed into the earth, but she barely noticed. Her heart, heavy with grief, seemed louder than the birdsong at dawn.
It had been six months since Jonathan passed. Six months of empty halls, cold dinners, and the relentless quietness that blanketed her farmhouse like a shroud. She had prayed, wept, demanded answers — and still, all she felt was that hollow ache. Gratitude felt like a galaxy away.
Pulling a wilted rose from the garden bed, she sighed. “What's left to be thankful for?” she whispered into the fog.
As she yanked at another weed, something small caught her eye. A single daisy, blooming stubbornly at the edge of the garden. White petals wide open, bright even in the muted morning. A survivor. Uninvited — and yet beautiful.
Margaret sat back on her heels. There, surrounded by spent blooms and the decay of what once was, the daisy stood defiantly alive. Tears blurred her vision.
Maybe gratitude didn't come from the absence of sorrow, but from the stubborn seeing of grace in its midst.
The thought was like a seed planting itself deep in her spirit. With it came a memory: Jonathan, laughing as he danced clumsily in their kitchen when he burned the bread. Jonathan, scribbling corny notes on sticky pads and hiding them inside cookbooks where she’d find them months later. Jonathan, praying beside her every night, even when life was messy and broke open at the seams.
Love hadn’t died with him. It had lived—and still lived—in the echoes and the memories, in the ghost of laughter she could almost hear when the evenings grew long.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Margaret rose to her feet. She picked the daisy and pressed it to her heart, whispering, “Thank You, Lord.”
Later that afternoon, she opened the worn leather Bible that had sat untouched on her nightstand since the funeral. Its familiar weight comforted her. She turned to Psalm 107:1, the page practically falling open to it: “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His love endures forever.”
Between the memories and that steadfast Word, a slow warmth began to build within her, like the first cracklings of a fireplace on a winter's night.
Margaret didn't suddenly find herself free of sorrow — but alongside the sorrow, blooming like that tiny daisy, was something else: gratitude.
And as the sun slipped lower over the hills, casting the world in molten gold, Margaret sang softly while she worked. It was an old hymn her grandmother had taught her, ragged and tender on her lips. The words floated into the deepening twilight, a gift she offered back to the One who had never truly left her.
Tomorrow, she would bake a pie and invite Sarah and Donna from church over, just like in the old days. Tomorrow, she would look for daisies among the weeds.
And she would find them.
—
Bible Verses:
