Troyanda

One dew-covered morning in the summer, a small bud was found at the very bottom of the pink rose bush in the corner of the garden.  The proud roses strained their stems to look at the glistening new addition to their happy bush.  A name for this beautiful bud was the first topic of discussion.

“She’s going to be gorgeous,” Rosa said, “I can tell.  So we should name her after me.”

Rhosyn laughed.  “That’s been your vote for for every bud that has bloomed this summer.  I say we should name her Blossom. I’ve always loved that name.”

“Troyanda,” a quiet voice said.  It was Kufufuka, the oldest and wisest of the roses on the bush.  She was the one the others turned to when they needed advice, and she had always overseen the naming of the buds.  As you can guess, the name stuck.  No other suggestions fit quite so well.

Troyanda grew quickly.  As the days went swiftly by, the little bud swelled with the evidence of silky pink petals ready to emerge.  She drew constantly from the warmth and nourishment of the sun.  She listened to music of the birds and the chatter of the squirrels.  She made friends with the beetles and worms and sang into the wind in the warmth of the afternoon.  And one by one, she watched as her friends on the bush were plucked and carried away.  She had been taught well, and she knew that the reason for the roses was to be taken and loved by those who saw them.  She wanted more than anything to be like her friends and live up to her purpose in the garden.

But there at the bottom, no one saw her.  She had narrowly escaped being crushed by his boot as the gardener commented on Rosa’s beauty.  Troyanda was beautiful, too, but no one took the time to look for her.  She could only look on sadly as her friends left her to live their dreams.

As Troyanda’s petals opened and spread, the last of her companions departed.  She was alone.  No one visited the rosebush anymore.  Her petals wilted and started to fall as the leaves of the bush began to change color.  One morning, she awoke to find a crisp frost covering her like a blanket.  The sun melted it quickly, but it left her petals blackened, broken, and full of holes.

During this time, Troyanda found that she really wasn’t alone.  She was the trusted guardian of a squirrel’s precious nuts.  She sheltered the home of a family of pillbugs, and every night, the beetles, worms, and sparrows gathered to hear her sing in a voice as gentle as her ways.  All the creatures in the garden loved her, but Troyanda wasn’t happy.  She often thought about the summer days when she was beautiful, and how wonderfully different her life could have been.

Soon leaves began to fall, leaving all the trees and bushes in the garden just bare skeletons.  The gardener came again.  Troyanda envied the leaves that were fortunate enough to be taken away.  For two days she watched with mournful thought of the coming winter.  Such thoughts occupied her mind in the afternoon of the second day.  She was imagining snow, cold, and death when six words hurt her like no image could.

“Well, hello there, you ugly thing,” the gardener said.  “You’re as brown as the dirt.  It’s no wonder I didn’t see you before.”

He carelessly snapped Troyanda’s stem and lifted her up to the mouth of his black garbage bag.

Troyanda looked at the sun for the last time, the words that had shattered all her dreams ringing through her mind.  She tried hard not to cry as she dropped into the darkness forever.

Out of Troyanda’s sight and even further from her thoughts, a little family of pillbugs had crawled out of a small hole in the soil.  A squirrel joined three sparrows on a bare gray branch above, and a large number of beetles and worms could be seen scattered about the garden.  They looked on in silent indignation.

That evening, the creatures gathered as usual, but not to hear Troyanda’s songs.  For a while, a thoughtful stillness reigned over the group.  No one knew what to say, for none wished to voice what they all were thinking.  An emotional beetle finally spoke up.

“I remember...” she began, and the night became a reminiscent journey down memory lane.  They spoke of the kindness of their faithful friend.  They cried over her smile that shone through the pain in her heart.  They admired her courage and selflessness, and each vowed that they would never forget the humble flower that had possessed nothing except a caring heart, and had forgotten her dreams to give the only thing she had left.

A somber ceremony was held that night as the moon rose between the mountains.  To this day, if you come to the rosebush under the walnut tree in the back corner of the garden,  take a magnifying glass.  You will see the word “Troyanda” written into the lowest branch, carefully cleaned and sheltered by those who have not forgotten the great gift that had been given all those years ago.


Remember-- you may not feel important. It might be that you feel inadequate. You might think that because you aren't what everyone thinks you should be, you aren't good. Just know that if you work to do and be the best you can, you will touch lives in a way you otherwise couldn't have. You have your own unique purpose, and you don't have to be like everyone else. You are special; live up to your individuality. It is who you are.

Parable of the Sonflower

The Parable of the Sonflower

by Patty Morford

  Once there was a small flower. She was fragile and afraid of everything, but her greatest fear was that she wouldn’t be able to do everything all the other flowers expected of her. In the back of her mind, she worried that she had been planted in the wrong garden.  She never felt that she blended well with the colors of the other flowers.  From her place at the edge of the patch, a well secluded corner, she could see the other garden beds, and envied the situation of similar little flowers.  She always felt unfortunate. She disparaged over the stormy days, and never appreciated or even noticed when it was sunny. To her, existence was a burden.

  Then one day, a group of other flowers were planted near her. She watched them, noticing how comfortable they seemed with themselves. They invited her to join their group.  Hesitantly, the small flower tried to connect and be more like these wonderful flowers.  As she became familiar with them, she realized that they were normal flowers, like her, with only one difference: they were confident, always working to improve themselves.

  

  The small flower participated in the things her new group of friends did, and, though at first she was afraid to open up, she soon found herself blossoming into a beautiful bloom, unique and confident.  She no longer hid in her corner, but lit it up with her individuality.  Her new friends helped her learn kindness, wisdom, self-confidence through God-confidence, forgiveness, and charity.  Through building her relationships with her fellow flowers, she came to know and love the One who put her where she was. She found that she was not planted in that garden to blend in and hide, but to stand out and shine as an example to those around her.  And just like she grew from the warmth and strength of the sun in the sky, she built herself inside through the strength and love of the Son, her Savior.  

  

  She learned that when she stays shallow and allows others to block the sun from her, she does not grow, and only breaks down. But when she plants her roots deep in the good soil and only listens to those who will build her up and help her find the sunlight, she blooms into a flower of a color and vibrancy that she never could have obtained on her own.  She learned to depend on the Gardener, and trust that He had planted her where she needed to be, where she could become her best self; a flower of the Son.

 Though small we may be,

And not far can we see,

We know there is Someone who cares.

He has a great Plan

For the welfare of Man,

He hears us in our heart-felt prayers.

We can turn to Him

When our future seems dim;

He'll lead us back into the light.

With help of great friends,

We'll endure to the end;

Together we'll all win the fight.

The End

Purpose

        This is an article I wrote for Shaking Brains, a wonderful company that I love being a team member with!  I hope you like it and you can view it on their website (which I highly recommend; they have some great stuff on there) if you click here.  It will be posted on that website on Monday, December 7, 2015.  (If you're reading this after that date, it's already there.)  Enjoy!

Hey, guys! I’m so happy to be writing for you!  My name is Patty Morford.

I know, right? You’re probably thinking, “‘Patty’? Since when is that a name?”  Trust me, I’ve been called Hamburger or Peppermint (even Cow) countless times.  And you know what? For about a year when I was eight and insecure, I tried to change my name.  I was tired of being teased about my weird name.  I wanted to be called Patricia, instead (that’s my full first name).  That one was still a little odd, and I would have tried my middle name (Evelyn is pretty epic, right?), but by that time I had learned something.

I learned that it didn’t really matter what my name was.  It didn’t matter what anyone thought about my name either.  There was a reason for my name, and people’s words couldn’t change its purpose.  It meant something to me, and I wasn’t about to let myself feel embarrassed about someone’s opinion.

To change the subject slightly: my grandmother is a wonderful person.  She grew up in the home of two former navy personnel who were professionally employed in the medical field.  She was the oldest of three children, the youngest being 12 years younger.  She was so much older than her siblings, and I can’t say that her growing-up years were the kind you would ask for.  She married a military man, this time from the air force.  My grandma’s life has had many difficulties, which definitely built her character.  She could have been negatively affected by her experiences, but she chose to use them to make her better.  She is the strongest, kindest person I know, and I greatly admire and look up to her.  Her name is Patty.

That’s why I’m proud of my name.  My parents named me after the woman who quickly became my hero, and that has such a meaning to me.  I would not wish to bear any other title.  This name pushes me to live up to the honor she built upon it.  I want to be the kind of person that would make her proud to share her name with.  For me, my name is who I am.  It gives me a purpose and a direction to my life.

I’m not saying that everyone’s name means something that deep.  Your parents may have named you after a book or movie character, or thought that your name sounded cool.  But there was still a reason for your name; and apart from that and more importantly, there is a reason for you.

You are not an accident.  You are not a mistake.  You have a purpose. You have a mission.  You can be great. You are meant to be great.

You may have felt that you don’t matter.  That you want to change yourself or even get rid of yourself.  You might feel like being different is a bad thing, and you’re afraid to be yourself.  Well, I’m here to tell you this: forget about it.  Stop thinking that.  You DO matter.  You are the way you’re meant to be.  Becoming better isn’t change; it’s being more like your true self.  Everyone was made individually.  Mankind didn’t originate in a mass production of an identical item; you were meant to be different.  That’s what will make you successful.

Embrace your differences.  Your little oddities and quirks are who you are.  It’s those little things that take you to other places.  You don’t share and interest with someone? That’s okay.  Do your own thing.  If everyone was amazing at the same thing, no one would be.  There wouldn’t been a need for talent if talent was all the same.

Somewhere inside you is a genius.  A path and a purpose.  You.

And you matter more than you will ever know.