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This morning's roses were color-flushed handfuls, with firstborn petals scattered on the ground. Over-tended and prolific, white-grained fertilizer had been shoveled beneath them and around them, much of it lay on the bordering boxwood.
The air was crisp and cool. Wet grass soaked my shoes and the toes of my socks as I scouted different angles and light. The maintenance man drove along the walk to the rose garden, agreeing that it was indeed a beautiful morning before stopping to empty two trashcans. I told him to take his time.
Patience is a key virtue. Waiting upon God with a sense of trust is a wonderful thing. May I know the power of this trusting when I can't see past this present tense existence.