Heading towards the park for my afternoon loop, I let my shoes clack against the warming pavement. As I approached the parking lot I have to cross before reaching the trail, I noticed a black SUV with all the windows down. The back of the large car was full of life being lived – piles of clothes, pots and pans, and belongings were stuffed to the top of the roof. It was clear the owner was in a rough patch, or choosing to live out of their car for whatever reason. And on top of all of the things was a throw pillow with the word “Hope” scrawled across the top. Underneath, the definition: desire for a certain thing to happen.

Curious, I thought to myself, as I wandered from asphalt to gravel, letting my arms soak in a tiny bit of early summer sun.

As I walked, I noticed the green grass, and the thistles, poking their arms through the green with bursts of purple blossom. I’ve always loved thistles – they shouldn’t be beautiful. Their exterior exudes protection and leave-me-alone energy. Yet, for just a few weeks, they invite you in with color and beauty, perhaps suggesting, it’s not all that bad, if you’re observant enough to notice.

A family member is getting surgery this week and I’m nervous. Any time someone I love is at risk, I can feel my heart quake. And I’ve learned the poky energy doesn’t always keep me safe – it just keeps others out. As I watch horrific headlines pour in, and see neighbors needing help, I’m reminded that we need to say aloud – I am scared. We are scared. Help me remember that even thistles bloom. And that hope exists atop the remnants, where the broken belongings are still stacked. We are sacred.

Gratitude oozes from the same place where our bodies need repair – hips or hearts or hands. May we open them and be curious, inviting hope to grace our open fingers. Beautiful things.