The Unlikely Messenger: A Slice of Life with Debra Brown
Sunlight streamed through the trees as I walked up the driveway. Birdsong and squirrel chatter filled the air, and somewhere nearby a woodpecker tapped a steady rat-a-tat against the old live oak. It should have been the kind of morning that lifted my spirits.
But it didn’t.
Every April, I feel the urge to plant flowers. It’s almost instinctive. The moment the weather softens and the days stretch longer, I begin imagining color in the yard again.
Mom used to smile at my impatience.
“Wait until after Easter,” she’d say. “We always have blackberry winter right before it.”
Honestly, I never remember her missing it.
This year, winter had been especially harsh. For weeks, the temperatures dipped into the twenties, with wind chills that felt more like the teens. I covered Mom’s big potted plants the best I could, pulling blankets and sheets around them during the coldest nights.
But the cold had lingered too long.
Some of the plants she had tended were gone.
Standing there that morning, looking at the empty pots, I felt the weight of it settle on my shoulders. It wasn’t just the plants. It was the quiet reminder that the hands that once nurtured them were no longer here.
Mom had been a Master Gardener, and when she moved in with us, our yard transformed. Flower beds deepened. Color appeared in places I would never have thought to plant. What had once been an ordinary yard became something of a showplace.
She had a way of seeing possibilities where I only saw dirt and space.
“This corner needs color,” she’d say, pointing toward a bare patch of soil.
“But it’s hard to get things to grow in that spot,” I’d counter.
Mom would chuckle. “Just wait.”
Before long, she’d be outside with her gloves and a trowel, moving from bed to bed, coaxing life out of the soil. I learned a lot just by watching her—not only about plants, but about patience.
“Gardening is an act of hope,” she once told me. “You plant something small, take care of it, and trust that beauty will come.”
And butterflies loved it.
That part had always made Meredith roll her eyes.
When she was little, I planted butterfly bushes because I thought she would delight in them. Butterflies fluttered through the yard all summer long, drifting from bloom to bloom.
Years later, I nearly laughed out loud when I saw Meredith’s Twitter profile description:
Fine with snakes. Afraid of butterflies.
It became a running joke in our family, especially after Mom moved in and began suggesting flowers specifically chosen to attract them.
Meredith tolerated many things in life. Butterflies were not among them.
But the most memorable butterfly moment came on a day when none of us expected it.
When Mom passed away, we gathered for a graveside ceremony after her Celebration of Life. The cemetery sat high on a hill, in a quiet place where the wind rustled the leaves.
As we stood there together, something bright caught my eye.
A large yellow butterfly appeared out of nowhere and swooped straight toward Meredith’s face.
She flapped her hands in startled protest, then leaned close and whispered, “Sasa’s still messing with me.”
Even in the middle of grief, we laughed.
That moment has stayed with me.
So when I walked toward the house that April morning and the biggest yellow butterfly I’d seen all year fluttered down the driveway to greet me, I stopped.
It hovered for just a moment in the sunlight.
The flower beds weren’t ready yet. Winter had taken its toll, and the yard still felt bare in places.
But the butterfly didn’t seem to mind.
I stood there longer than I expected, watching it drift through the light. For a moment, the yard didn’t feel quite so empty.
Grief has a way of making everything look bare, like winter that lingers longer than it should. But sometimes the smallest things, like a memory, a laugh, even a bright yellow butterfly, remind us that love doesn’t disappear.
It simply changes seasons.
The flowers might be gone, but Mom’s nurturing spirit wasn’t. The lessons she planted about patience, care, and trust in the seasons remained in us.
Maybe it was time to plant again.
Maybe it was time to tuck a few new flowers into those empty pots by the door.
Maybe it was time to trust that new beauty would come, as it always does after a blackberry winter.
And who knows? This year, I might even plant a butterfly bush or two to keep Meredith on her toes.
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” – Ecclesiastes 3:1.
Note: My mama and grandmother always cautioned. If you see blackberry blossoms, you can expect a cold snap, especially before Easter.
Debra Brown’s motto is “Be the Spark.” She has a passion for family, her 3 cats, flowers, pretty food, and health & wellness. Debra is an author, UGA honors graduate/The Citadel MBA.