Gentle Petals

In loving memory of my sister, Michelle, who passed away suddenly on Sunday, March 16, 2025 after a long and courageous fight with cancer.

As she walked down the path, the sound of the earth under her feet brought a familiar peace. The warm summer breeze brushed against her face, and the sweet scent of the bay lingered within her reach. Her steps were slow but steady. She didn’t wear her scarf today; it was too hot to cover up. The evidence of unforgiving chemo treatments was apparent, but Michelle carried herself with strength.

She meandered along the camp’s dirt path, her steps steady, her purpose unchanged since childhood—a quiet certainty once witnessed in smaller footsteps. “Gotta put recycling in its place—'cause it’s the responsible thing to do.’”

Children’s laughter drifted from the nearby pool, weaving itself into her thoughts. She loved her family deeply, but her heart ached for her mother, who carried the weight of her diagnosis. How will she bear this? How does a mother hold the knowing—that her daughter’s life will be cut short? Yet Michelle, ever the fighter, brought no false hope, only a strength no one should have to shoulder.

She passed the camp office, where flowers spilled over the edges of a cement-raised garden. The September heat had taken its toll, leaving them thin and weary. Yet the poppies still stood, sheltering the petunias in their faded beauty. She paused, brushing her fingers along their delicate petals.

"Although you are wilted, you're beautiful," she whispered.

She leaned over, gently deadheading the petunias, tending to her cherished companions. "Pretty babies, you've given so much joy this summer." The intense heat had worn on their strength, yet they stood, offering what remained. As she passed by, her fingertips grazed the soft edges of a poppy’s fragile petals—once vibrant, now bowing under the sun’s weight.

Michelle continued down the dirt path to dispose of the recycling. She was ever so careful to ensure the bag was thrown out correctly and picked up a few wayward plastics that escaped from a prior person's attempt to recycle. As she made her way back to the trailer, past the raised garden and under the maple tree, the flowers seemed to take notice, lifting ever so slightly in the evening breeze.

"Well, hello." A woman on a nearby porch called out. She was a little older than Michelle. "Hey, are you a cancer survivor?"

"I'm trying to be," Michelle answered with a soft smile.

Without hesitation, the woman asked, "What kind of cancer do you have?"

"Multiple Myeloma."

A flicker of recognition passed between them. "I have Multiple Myeloma too," her neighbour said. "I'm Delores. Come and sit down."

They talked for a while until Michelle, mindful of her new friend’s time with her family, excused herself. As she walked away, Delores called after her with a warm smile, “Don’t be a stranger!”

The afternoon passed in a quiet blur of small tasks and unspoken reflection. As the sun melted behind the vast watery horizon, the day released its hold. The night welcomed them both once again.

Michelle and Delores sat by the beach, a campfire flickering between them. They talked as if they had a lifetime of catching up to do. Sharing their stories—of a deadly storm, of battles fought within their own bodies—wove an unexpected thread of peace between them.

A minute of silence found its way into their conversation. Michelle stood up, letting the quiet settle in her bones as she gazed out over the ageless water. She took a deep breath, inhaling the moment, as she attempted to set aside the relentless pain in her body. Reflection felt easier here, where the waves whispered of things lost and found.

The warm, familiar breeze curled around her shoulders, lifting the corner of her shirt. The scent of late-blooming wildflowers lingered in the air—longer than it should have as if the earth itself hesitated to let her go. Michelle found comfort in the simplicity of the moment.

A small smile touched her lips. It had been good to meet new friends today—Delores, Petunia, and Poppy, who shared the gentle petals' grace.

"Although you are wilted, you're beautiful"

Prayer

Lord, there are no easy words for this kind of sorrow. The weight of long-suffering, the ache of watching a body fight for so long, the quiet moments when grief lingers before the loss—it is all too much to hold alone. But You are a God who does not turn away from suffering. You do not hurry it along. You do not rush to erase it. Instead, You sit with us in it.

You remind us, "Even in darkness, light dawns for the upright, for those who are gracious and compassionate and righteous” (Psalm 112:4). There is light, even here, though sometimes it is only a flicker. There is beauty, even in the wilted flowers. There is presence, even when silence fills the space where words fail.

God, You are not distant. You are the One who says, “I have seen their ways, but I will heal them; I will guide them and restore comfort to Israel’s mourners” (Isaiah 57:18). You are the One who sees the whole picture, the One who walks through the valley alongside us, step by step.

There is no pretending in this pain. But, Lord, even here, even in the long fight, even in the grief that settles in waves—we are not forsaken. You gather every tear. You hold every unspoken prayer. You are the God who does not let go.

Let those who carry this sorrow feel the gentle nearness of You, Lord. Let the wind whisper peace. Steady and unshaken, let the earth remind them that they are still held. Let the stars tell them they are seen. And when the strength to pray fades, may Your presence remain—quiet but unwavering.

Amen.  🍃