Y is for Yellow Flowers

     Yellow flowers mark the trail to my little hut in the woods.  They droop down slightly, as if bowing in respect.  I give a little mock salute, my face as rigid as a soldier’s.

     My hut is a place of rest and reflection for me.  A little bible sits in one dusty corner on a cushion I found in the attic.  The bookmark is usually placed delicately in Psalms, today at the fifty-fifth.
     I read the twenty-second verse out loud, “‘Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee: he shall never suffer the righteous to be moved.’”
     The words swim around in my head.   My burden?  Could that be sin?  Sadness?  At least it’s good to know that whatever it is the Lord will guard me against it.  Never, it says, will he let the righteous be moved.  I guess that means breaking down, letting it depress you.
     Am I a righteous person? I ask myself.  I try.  My chores are always done on time, lies rarely make it to my lips, and I seldom get in fights with my little brothers, but is that enough?  I’ve helped Mrs. McCarthy with her sewing and put out milk for her tabby cat at Christmas, but does that make a difference?
     I lay my head back against the soft wood walls of my hut.  Birds chirp outside, soothing the light thump of pain in my head.  Yes, I finally decide.  I’m righteous enough, even if there’s still room for improvement.
     The weight on my shoulders, what brought me into the woods to my home-away-from-home, suddenly feels lighter.  God is willing to accept my pain, my guilt, my sorrow.
     I realize that from now on I can walk to my little hut with a smile.  It might be a half-smile, twisted a little at the corners, but a smile nonetheless. 
     The yellow flowers on my way home look straighter and taller than ever.