‘how are we going to get the plane down, Granna?’

I’ve been watching you for a few days now, outside my window.  Alone.

You just showed up one day.  Sprouting alone in the stone hard soil.  Blooming in your ray of sunshine yellow.


I imagined your journey, from a tiny seed to the saliva of the bird’s mouth, too small to hold your power. Dropped. Forgotten. And as you buried yourself deep covered in faith, your tiny roots grew and so did your will.


The wind blows.  It sounds like angels’ wings fluttering.  I hear a plane overhead. The hands on my watch remind me that my son and his wife, my other daughter is in flight above the clouds, coming home.

Just yesterday my grand baby boy, all of three and a half years saw this smoke filled road in the sky and ask, ‘How are we going to get the plane down, Granna?’


I go and sit on the ground next to this lone flower.  The one that has given me so much joy over the past few days.  The one planted by God.

And my phone rings and the message says, ‘We’re home. Love you!’

And Kase’s question echos in my heart, ‘Granna, how are we going to get the plane down?’

It’s like this, sweet boy. We ask the same God who grew this tiny flower. Faith and prayers. That’s how we get the plane down.


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