The Plant's Story

Today the cherry blossoms are just beginning to peek out creating a pink cloud over the bare branches of the tree. That and the charming tinkling of a goldfinches song from a nearby tree gave this morning a wonderfully magical feel to it on our way down to the river. Spring is definitely in the air, even if it is still cold, and there could well be a chance of rain later today.

My dear old mother would have loved it. Frances E Crawford, mostly known to her friends as Frankie, loved plants and nature. I think she even talked to her african violets. She always brightened up, lying in her room in the nursing home, if you were to bring in a bunch of flowers or a potted plant. Now there's a story attached to this plant in the photo (I’m sorry I don’t know what sort it is). It's her’s. It sits in our lounge area here on the ninth floor of a Lisbon apartment building. Before that, it flourished in our living room in Somerset Park Coleraine. And before then in my parents home in Portstewart. It is most probably, according to Anna, over 20 years old.

But when we came to move to Portugal, it was impractical obviously to carry plants with us. So all the ones we had were taken to a friend’s house. Except for the tiniest scrap of a leaf and a shoot from this single plant for the sake of the memory of my mother. It nestled protected by a piece of kitchen roll in a plastic cup in between underwear and books on two easyjet flights and for a long time, months, lay sadly dormant in a little pot in the kitchen of our new apartment. But three years on, look at her flourish. It’s as if my mother is here singing and smiling, and expressing her joy that God never stops working - continues to bless, enrich and watch over us!