Month: June 2026

Take Time to Smell the Flowers

Lately, I have been thinking about the phrase, “Stop and smell the roses.” I know that’s the traditional saying, but I’ve found myself changing it. Roses feel too narrow to me. Why limit ourselves to just one flower?

Instead, I have been reflecting on the invitation to take time to smell the flowers.

When I think about that phrase, I am reminded that in every moment there is likely something to enjoy, something beautiful to notice, something worthy of our attention. Life is busy, and over the past six months I have realized how easy it is to simply move through the motions of living rather than fully immerse myself in the experiences that make up each day.

The last two weeks have been anything but ordinary.

I was invited on a trip to the Netherlands with my sister and her family, my mom, and my brother-in-law’s mom. We all know one another well, and there was a sense of positive energy and anticipation as we set out. The trip gave us the opportunity, once again, to experience the birthplace of both of my parents.

As I reflect on the beauty I encountered in the Netherlands, I realize that many of the flowers I found were not growing in gardens.

Some showed up in relationships.

Reuniting with family

There was sweetness in reconnecting with my mom’s cousins and their children. There was genuine delight in being together again and sharing stories across generations. The time we spent together felt like a gift.

Reuniting cousins after many years

There was beauty in sitting in my dad’s cousin’s home with her husband and their daughter, who is deaf. Watching sign language woven into every conversation was remarkable. The beauty of communication, the care taken with every shared word, and the love evident in that quaint Dutch living room caused me to pause and marvel at the goodness present in such an ordinary setting.

My Dad’s absence was felt, but love and connection abound!

Another flower appeared as we traveled to my mom’s birthplace. Listening to her speak her heart language, Friesian, and hearing her stories of growing up there stirred a deep gratitude within me. Her story has shaped who I am. In many ways, it has shaped all of us. Watching her come alive as she revisited familiar places and familiar sounds was a reminder that our roots matter.

And then there was Overschie.

Walking through the streets where my dad grew up brought an ache I had not fully anticipated. Making this trip without him caused grief to bubble to the surface of my heart.

As I walked, memories from our previous trip in 2016 seemed to unfold around me. I could hear my dad’s voice telling stories about growing up with German soldiers stationed across the street.

Beppe and the Bos grandchildren standing in front of my Dad’s childhood home

He spoke of those years reflectively and with a sense of curiosity about the human experience. He often noted that even during wartime, children still wanted to play. Even in the midst of conflict, children longed for friendship. The realities of war were present, yet the desires of childhood remained unchanged.

I remembered his stories of hearing bombs fall on Rotterdam. I could picture the family photographs that tell the story of people finding their way through war, uncertainty, and eventually immigration.

My Dad on the far left on the streets of Rotterdam

At first, I wasn’t sure there would be any flowers to find in the absence of my dad.

I thought the grief might overshadow everything else.

But I was surprised.

The flower waiting for me there was not the absence of grief—it was the presence of love. Love that continues long after someone is gone. Love carried in stories, in familiar streets, in family photographs, and in memories that still have the power to bring a smile.

Then I returned home, and within twenty-four hours, my great-niece and I found ourselves at DeVos Children’s Hospital for what would become a two-week stay and a course of IV antibiotics.

It could have been an experience that squelched the beauty of the flowers I was still marveling at from the Netherlands. Instead, I realized the garden would continue to grow.

Each day I have witnessed the resilience of a child who refuses to be limited by a PICC line or hospital walls. She greets everyone she encounters—from doctors and nurses to escort staff, maintenance workers, housekeepers, and visitors—with a cheerful “Hello!” followed by enthusiastic conversation in her own twenty-month-old language.

Yesterday afternoon, while exploring the hospital grounds, she stopped to smell a flower.

I smiled as I watched her, realizing she was living the very lesson I had been reflecting on. She was not worried about yesterday or tomorrow. She was simply present enough to notice the beauty in front of her.

She reminds me that joy is often found in the simplest interactions and the smallest moments.

Our circumstances have also reminded me to be grateful. In a few days, Umi will likely go home healed from a difficult infection. Around us are families facing diagnoses, procedures, and life changes that may alter the course of their journeys forever.

As I watch them, I find myself praying that in their new or ongoing realities they, too, will discover flowers growing in unexpected places.

Perhaps that is part of our calling—to tend our own gardens while also helping others notice the beauty blooming in theirs.

It is my hope that we can learn to travel through each day aware that beauty and fragrance exist all around us, even when circumstances are difficult, even when grief is present, and even when hospital rooms replace Dutch countryside vistas.

Sometimes we simply need to take a little extra time to notice.

Perhaps that is what it means to take time to smell the flowers.

The flowers are not always bright and cheerful. Sometimes they are found in laughter around a dinner table. Sometimes they appear in a language spoken across generations. Sometimes they bloom in the quiet beauty of human connection. And sometimes they emerge from grief itself, reminding us that what hurts is often connected to what we have loved most deeply.

The flowers are there.

The question is whether we will slow down long enough to notice them.

We thought we had more time

We knew time was limited, but we thought we had more. More conversations. More golf games. More family gatherings. More ordinary days. Eight years later, I still find myself returning to the truth my Dad lived by so faithfully: “All of our days are in God’s hands.”

I am writing again, not just for myself, but for those who will carry forward the legacy of faith in our family.

One of the sweetest gifts in recent years has been hearing the great-grandchildren who never knew my dad ask questions about him, share stories they have heard, and speak his name with a sense of familiarity and love. Each time they do, I am reminded that a life faithfully lived continues to shape generations yet to come.

I want them to know not only how he lived, but also how he died. I want them to understand the faith that sustained him, the peace that anchored him, and the confidence he carried into his final days.

So tonight, I am sharing this story again. Perhaps one day, one of those little people will read these words all grown up and gain a glimpse of the man we loved so dearly and the God he trusted so completely.

We knew our time was limited, but we thought we had more.

We all wanted more time.

Just another month.

Another week.

Another day.

Another conversation.

Another chance to hear his voice, receive his counsel, watch him laugh with his grandchildren, or sit quietly together in the ordinary moments that suddenly become precious when they are gone.

But time was not ours to keep.

And in the end, we have peace, even in our sorrow, because we know and embrace the same God and the same faith. The God who held my Dad’s days also holds ours.

May we never lose sight that every day contains more than our sadness. God is still on His throne. The birds still sing in the morning. Grace still meets us in each new day.

And now I leave you with words my Dad shared in the final days of his life, just before his unexpected death:

“But we wanted you all to know that we are grateful for each day, and rest in the assurance that all of our days are in God’s hands. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.”

Eight years later, I continue to find comfort in that assurance.

The Courage to be Prayed for

In summary, this reflection explores how meaningful church community grows through vulnerability and shared struggle. While honoring privacy and dignity, it questions whether fear of exposure sometimes prevents deeper connection and support. Through personal experience and the story of a family member who found comfort in being openly prayed for, it suggests that true belonging may require the courage to let others see our tender places and carry burdens alongside us.

There is an interesting trend I have noticed over the years when it comes to praying for people in church.

I grew up as a pastor’s kid, later worked full time in a large church, and today remain deeply committed to and grateful for the ministry of the church I attend. Through all those seasons, one thing I have held very dear is the building of community within the body of believers.

There are many things that contribute to community growing wide—shared interests, regular conversation, serving together, showing up Sunday after Sunday. Those things matter deeply.

But true community must also grow deep.

And I wonder if depth is formed most authentically when we allow others to join us in the tender places of life: struggle, illness, grief, uncertainty, vulnerability. The moments where we are not polished or composed, but simply human.

One of my favorite quotes is by C.S. Lewis:

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’”

That quote has always felt profoundly true to me. Friendship deepens when we risk transparency. Trust grows when someone bravely says, “Me too.” Life somehow becomes sweeter when we stop pretending we are carrying life alone.

So I find myself wondering:

Has the church been a place where you have experienced friendships rooted in shared vulnerability and deep trust?

One place this question has surfaced for me is in the practice of praying for the people. Increasingly, it seems as though we must ask permission to pray for someone—or perhaps more accurately, permission to name their struggle aloud.

I understand why.

Privacy matters. Dignity matters. We do not want to expose what someone is not ready to share.

But I also remember when I was younger that certain realities—breast cancer, hysterectomies, mental health struggles, addiction, infertility, family fractures—often lived in quiet corners. They were the unspoken prayers, or perhaps the carefully coded requests. We knew something was happening, but rarely spoke of it plainly.

In many ways, I am grateful we have grown. There are conversations today that once felt impossible to name in church, and that matters.

Yet I also wonder if, at times, we have maintained a kind of self-protection that quietly limits transparency.

When my aunt was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia, she courageously agreed to have it placed in our church bulletin. It was not an easy decision. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that made her deeply uncomfortable at first.

But what followed surprised her.

The feeling of exposure was quickly met with care, compassion, warm meals, friendly visits, and the steady comfort of knowing people were praying for her. She often said it felt nice to be prayed for.

As her illness progressed, she reflected on what sharing her diagnosis had opened up in her life. At one point she said, “It took sharing my disease to really know people and to let people know me.”

Her words have stayed with me.

Perhaps true community requires something costly from us: a willingness to ask for help, to ask for prayer, to let others know where life feels tender or broken, and to receive support from those who long to carry burdens with us.

Maybe the invitation is not simply to pray for one another, but to trust one another enough to be prayed for.

I do not ask this with judgment, but curiosity.

What would happen if our churches became places where vulnerability was met not with discomfort, but compassion? Where asking for prayer was not a sign of weakness, but belonging? Where we discovered, again and again, the sacred relief of hearing someone say:

“What? You too? I thought I was the only one.”