What You May Not Know You’re Telling Us

Photo: Chad Cooper, Creative Commons, cc license
Photo: Yen-Cheng Li, Creative Commons, cc license

When I peered out last night, they caught me by surprise. Standing crowded together, they stared to the right, fascinated by something in the west. I laughed and wondered what I was missing; and how did they know to all turn and watch?

In the jumbled garden beds, a crowd of sunflowers stands tall in a jungle of weeds. Strays from last year’s structured vegetable gardens, the sunflowers are not yet fully grown. Their flowered faces are small, more like sleepy full-lashed cyclops, and last night they stood in silent vigil after a setting sun.

I laughed yesterday at the sight of them. This morning, I stepped out to study them again. In perfect precision, they had changed during the night, and now they all faced east. Heavy-lidded tiny eyes following the light. Yesterday, peering into evening’s twilight, they remained still, staring at where they had last seen the sun’s face. Waiting, quiet in the night, they stood. Until this morning, and how do they know? These stray wild flowers on a cloudy grey morning, how do they see the sun’s face when I have yet to? How do they know to turn to the light, to turn to the place where they know they’ll see his face? How do they know to wait? 

And I see that in you, and in other dear friends, this ability to follow the Light. I see you, standing… some in meticulously-ordered sites and the watching for the sun is easy, ordered, expected. You know where he’ll appear because he did yesterday and the day before, and you stand and you wait, knowing the light will come. Other friends, we’ve talked, and you share it raw and honest over coffee cups or cyber space that the waiting is hard, this life is jumbled, disordered, and not as structured as you had planned. The days are cloudy, and you don’t quite see his face yet, but you remember where you saw him last and so you stare and wait, convinced that since you saw him here last, this is where you’ll wait, watching, until you see him again.

The sunflowers amaze and delight me, moving me to laughter and joy on a day with both grey thunderous rain and splashing sunlight. I watch the way they follow him, the way they follow the light despite the changing weather. Their faces keep time with the movements of the sun and their eyes never waver, following his light.

I see it in you, friends, in the times we’ve talked. And for others of you whom I’m still getting to know, I can sense it. That others see this in you too. How your face hovers waiting, and how your very being turns towards Him, and points me in His direction too. You point us to His light, my friends.

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  1. Bill (cycleguy) on July 2, 2014 at 10:31 am

    I truly hope I do this for people…pointing them to Jesus, even when i am not aware of it.

  2. Floyd on July 2, 2014 at 10:44 pm

    Awesome analogy, Jennifer. We have the instinct our Father gave us to seek Him, some listen, some disobey. Like the sunflowers, the ones that follow Him live… forever. Beautiful picture you painted in my mind.

  3. dan black on July 3, 2014 at 6:00 pm

    Great post here! God gives us learning lessons everyday! When we follow Him we will have eternal life.

  4. Cheryl Barker on July 4, 2014 at 4:48 am

    Love the thought of always turning to His light and following Him, Jennifer. You point us to Him, too, as you turn to and reflect His light. Blessings to you and prayers for your family!

  5. Dolly@Soulstops on July 7, 2014 at 8:51 pm

    Great image, Jennifer….that looking and waiting for Him because we've seen Him before….Thank you 🙂 how fun to have stray sunflowers 🙂

  6. Jennifer Dougan on July 9, 2014 at 6:36 pm


    From what I see online, you do. 🙂

    That's my prayer too.

    Jennifer Dougan

  7. Jennifer Dougan on July 9, 2014 at 6:37 pm


    "An instinct from our Father" — I like that!

    Jennifer Dougan

  8. Jennifer Dougan on July 9, 2014 at 6:37 pm

    Thank you, Dan. Thanks for stopping in.

    Have a great week,
    Jennifer Dougan

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