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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.