“A few years back during our annual visit to my parents’ home in Kentucky, I took my mother, Dorothy, to her favorite flea market, where we bought some flower bulbs. We told the woman who ran the booth that we both had black thumbs, so she recommended flowers that she called ‘miracles’ because they’re so easy to grow.
“I brought my bulbs back to Texas and planted them right away, knowing Mama had already planted hers in her front garden. But when spring rolled around, we called each other wondering why none of them ever blossomed. After three seasons we finally gave up, figuring we’d bought a batch of duds.
“When Mama passed away last spring, I ached inside. If only I had told her I loved her one more time… I should have called her more often… I wish I could know she is at peace. One morning this summer, I stepped outside and noticed beautiful white blooms in my garden. ‘You did it, Mama!’ I laughed through my tears, leaning closer to see a crown of tiny white flowers blooming. I ran inside to call my father, but before I got the chance, he excitedly called and informed me that the flowers in Mama’s garden had blossomed as well.
“I finally know what the woman at that flea market meant by ‘miracle’… The flowers wouldn’t bloom without a heavenly touch!”
—Alice Rowman, 34, Dallas
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