Morning slips in with no fanfare. It arrives on a hush, like velvet across the skin, settling over the earth with a sacred kind of stillness. My footsteps begin their familiar path through the garden, leaves crunching faintly beneath each stride. This time of day, the world holds its breath. The noise of life has not yet shaken the dew from the flower petals.

Every task can be holy when it’s done unto the Lord (Colossians 3:23). Your office is a sanctuary. Your kitchen, a sacred place. Your parenting, a priestly duty. Your garden, a place of holy ground. It’s not only about what you’re doing, but who you’re doing it for.

She whispered to no one in particular, “It’s worth it to see the flowers bloom.” Even when you plant them just for yourself. Even when no one seems to notice. Even when, one day, a child sees beauty in your dirt-stained labor and calls it magic.

Memorial Day, a time to remember not just the names—but the lives, the love, and the sacrifice behind them. The stories and the images we share are to remind us that freedom is not free. There is a cost and it’s been paid by those willing to put their lives in harm’s way…

Now, in this alley with danger at every corner, she thought about those thistles. She thought about how even beauty could come wrapped in protection. Maybe people were the same. Maybe her father’s harsh words were his thorns—meant not to destroy, but to protect.