The Wildflowers

Mercy Sunday. Stand by me.

Nov 23, 2025

It’s the Sunday before Thanksgiving and my mind is a jumble of thoughts.

A few days ago, California crawled out of a dramatic rain that felt like an eternity. We are full of drama here. And we don’t know how to drive in anything but sunshine. Scrambling for my keys, I caught my aging face in the car window, as the intensity of the sun peeked through the clouds and attacked my reflection. Squinting, like I do, at the more than illegal lumens, whenever I drive at night, I thought to myself: ouch! that’s a lot of wrinkles.

You are aging Deb. No joke. Lord, have mercy on me.

As I type, I am looking at the most visually gorgeous book called “The Way of the Wildflower,” by Ruth Chou Simons. I had no idea who she was until my Instagram feed introduced me to her. “Gospel Meditations To Unburden Your Anxious Soul” jumped out like a slap in the face. With a virtual order, I finally stepped away from Instagram, and bought the book.

Unburden.

Ruth quotes an author unknown, in a section called, “When You Don’t Feel Lovely.”

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

The California Poppy | Eschscholzia californica

"Beneath the sun's embrace, the poppy finds its radiant purpose."

When the Spaniards first saw the California hillsides covered in golden poppies, they called it the "land of fire."  That is radiance, Ruth goes onto say.

And there was my aging answer. Beneath the sun’s embrace, was my purpose to shine.

Age gracefully.

This past Thursday I lost control of my dog on a walk. “Why’d you let her do that?” he said. I went cold. Then sad. Then mad. Then frustrated. In a split second the dog Beatrice dragged me towards, behind an enclosed chainlink fence, had taken a sizable chunk from her already cat-battered, shiny black nose. The only black left on her old grey face. It was bad.

If human, she’d probably hug hard — then apologize. My poor awkward girl.

Over and over licking dripping blood, we hurried her home, only to see on the local news, a long procession for a young cop who died that same morning in a Los Angeles car chase. We are notorious for these in Southern California. It’s nothing to brag about. The impact was too much. 28 years old. Eight months on the job. Another innocent driver died as well. Ten years younger than me. It never ends.

Mercy.

In California you can steal up to $950 in merch and leave the store. A misdemeanor never prosecuted. No chasing. I have many thoughts, but I also learned this week, from my husband, who holds a maintenance contract in electrical work for a major city near us, that “drones are the future,” for “chasing” — and according to him, “they are kicking a$$” in the city’s police department.

1972’s Silent Running with Huey, Dewey and Louie is here Michael B. Morgan (this trailer got me like SNL’s MacGruber)

And back to Bea. Like me, she wears her scars on her greying face/sleeve. Eight years of hurting herself rather than destroy something in the house or yard. If she were human, she would be cutting.

Me? I walk away from what I love. Unworthy.

Self punishment.

The human condition.

Mercy.

The world is a beautiful place, full of great people, promise, hope and sweet, fluffy, bouncy dogs who love everyone. It’s easy to judge. I’m sure there are problems.

Dogs, people.

I know. Mercy.

Go to the local dog park ~~playground~~ and you will see “those people” gathered in a corner like the Best Friend’s Club — all with “seemingly well adjusted normal dogs ~~kids~~” running around chasing balls, having fun, while “they” sip their Starbucks and act all cool and stuff.

No problems whatsoever we think. But that’s never true.

When we go to the dog park, our child stands in the middle, staring, frozen for over an hour, or however long we are hopeful for a change. No one in the people club says hello. Nothing we do helps. She misses her mate, but she’s always been like this.

Abandoned as a 10 month old. Take your pick. Dog or human.

While Bea struggled, tied up in a field — the field kept growing.

Mercy.

I prefer the company of children. So does Bea. Untainted, we feel accepted by them. We are both in another season of empty nest. It can be painful, especially when bites are involved.

Biting dogs. Biting people. What’s the difference?

And women. Epstein. All week.

There are women all over the world, especially here, in Los Angeles, on Skid Rowz, in downtown Portland, Seattle, etc., who are being trafficked, raped and damaged. On a daily basis. (Young men too - btw)

I am tired of asking: where is the fight for them? where is the justice for them too?

The answer: it only matters when it matters to the powerful. Checkmate.

We have men with guns guarding open “tent markets,” in broad daylight, selling everything from drugs, dogs, to people — in Los Angeles. When is it their turn? The victims? Asking for a friend. It is well documented.

Mercy.

This week I carried the weight. I also missed my dad extra.

Our Father bares our weight.

Protector.

We are not meant to bare the weight of brokenness, nor numb ourselves to it. Instead, we must strive to be vessels of light and hope in a vast field of wonder mixed with harsh elements.

I realize the way of the wild flower is truly best.

and mercy.

Stand by me.

MY UNFRAMED LIFE

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