Not Forgotten

<http://www.guideposts.com/story/flower-power-grief>http://www.guideposts.com/story/flower-power-grief
 



My daughter was taken from me. Would I lose the memories of being 
close to her too?

By Sandy Olmsted, Orland Park, Illinois
December, 2003

I stepped onto the patio. It was early spring, only a few months 
after my 17-year-old daughter, Erin, died, killed by a drunken 
driver. Erin loved sunning herself out here, curling up in a deck 
chair with a book. Now the chair was empty. There was no book on the 
end table. But I never wanted to forget what it was like to look out 
and see her there.

I turned to go back into the house and caught sight of a splash of 
color. A single purple flower had pushed up among the rocks around 
the patio, where nothing had ever grown before. Purple had always 
been Erin's favorite color.

That summer the flower grew tall and bloomed, and the next summer a 
whole patch sprouted. I never did anything to care for those buds, 
but somehow they still thrived. Every year I looked forward to 
sitting outside on the patio with "Erin's flowers," as I decided to 
call them. It was my way of feeling close to my daughter again.

The fifth summer, the flowers did not appear. I kept scanning the 
rocks around the patio, and I looked all over the yard. I couldn't 
see any sign of them, not even a sprout. November and the anniversary 
of Erin's death came around. One day I stood at the window, watching 
cold rain lash the patio. God, I prayed, don't let me forget what it 
feels like to be close to my daughter.

Then a spot of purple caught my eye. I grabbed my raincoat and rushed 
out on the patio. Erin's flowers! How could they be growing now, with 
winter on the way?

It snowed later that week, and four more times that winter, yet the 
purple flowers survived, staying healthy and bright.

I don't know much about flowers, but these intrigued me. I took a 
picture and showed it to Erin's grandmother. She'd know what they 
were. "Do these look familiar?" I asked. She stared at the picture 
for a minute, then looked up at me. "Sandy," she said, her eyes 
filling with tears, "those are forget-me-nots."

I knew at once, a loving God would never let a mother forget.

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