7-year-old me: flower thief with PURE intentions

Dear treasured friends,

There's something about summer gardens that feels like glimpsing a little piece of heaven, isn't there?

The way the light dapples through leaves... the scent of soil warming under the sun... those first tender tomatoes that taste nothing like the ones from the store.

This morning, I found myself thinking about my grandmother's garden on Vancouver Island - a magical wonderland where I spent every childhood summer, my small fingers perpetually stained with raspberry juice.

I was just seven years old when I learned one of life's sweetest lessons about giving from that garden. Though not exactly in the way my grandmother intended...

That summer was different. Instead of me flying to Parksville, British Columbia, my grandmother was coming to stay with us in Campbellville, Ontario. I counted down the days, marking each one with the dramatic flair only a seven-year-old can muster.

But as her arrival drew closer, a worry settled in my heart.

How could I welcome Grannie properly?

You see, at her house, we'd always pick fresh flowers for the table. Her garden overflowed with forget-me-nots, peonies so fluffy they could barely hold themselves up, and roses in every shade imaginable.

Our garden in Campbellville? Let's just say it wasn't quite as... abundant.

So I made a decision that, to my seven-year-old heart, felt completely reasonable.

While my babysitter was distracted, I slipped out for what I innocently called "a little grazing."

What followed was nothing short of a neighborhood flower heist.

I jumped fences. I snuck through gates. I harvested Betsy's prized roses and Joe's rare bougainvilleas. I gathered hollyhocks from Susan's yard and daisies from who-knows-where.

With each flower I added to my collection, my heart swelled with pride. I was creating something beautiful for someone I loved.

By the time my parents returned home, I had arranged the most spectacular bouquet the dining room table had ever seen - a riot of colors and textures that practically sang with beauty.

Their faces shifted from awe to confusion to horrified understanding in about three seconds flat.

"Cydney... where did these flowers come from?"

I think a part of me knew, even then, that my methods were... questionable. But my intentions? They were pure as sunshine.

I wanted to outgive my grandmother - to show her that all the beauty she had shared with me hadn't fallen on barren soil. That I, too, could create something worthy of her delight.

Of course, what followed was a rather embarrassing round of apologies to the neighbors. (And a very patient explanation about property and permission.)

But you know what stays with me most about that memory?

Not the shame of being caught, or even the lesson about not taking what isn't yours.

What I remember is how desperately I wanted to give something beautiful. How the urge to create delight for someone else was so strong it overrode even my basic understanding of boundaries.

Isn't that how love works sometimes? It makes us a little wild. A little unreasonable. It pushes us to create beauty even when the means aren't quite perfect.

Just like how we wrap ourselves in a beloved scarf - not just for warmth, but as a reminder that we are held, protected, cherished. Our scarves at Loves Pure Light aren't just fabric. They're our bouquets to you - carefully cultivated, thoughtfully arranged, meant to bring a moment of beauty to your everyday life.

My grandmother understood this. Even as I tearfully apologized for my floral crime spree, her eyes twinkled. She knew what lived in my heart was more important than the misstep of my hands.

Sometimes I wonder if God sees us the same way - our clumsy attempts at love making Him smile even when our methods need a little refinement.

So this week, I'm curious:

When have you tried to create beauty for someone else, even if your attempt wasn't quite perfect?

Perhaps it was a meal that didn't turn out as planned... a handmade gift that looked slightly different than the Pinterest version... or maybe even a bouquet of "borrowed" flowers.

Reply in the comments and share your story. The most beautiful gardens grow from honest soil.

With love from my heart to yours,

Cydney.