Sharing Light Through Flowers
Today is a we’re going to talk about the hard things kind of day. Back in April, I shared in my Blooming in the Valleys post that we don’t talk about the hard stuff enough — the valleys, the unraveling, the moments when quitting feels like the only option. But maybe if we did, we’d feel a little less alone in them.
So today, I’m choosing to be vulnerable again. I want this to be a safe place on the internet — a place where the raw, heavy, and honest can live alongside the beauty. If you are walking through something right now and need prayer, please reach out. I will show up for you.
This past week has been heavy. Between the anniversary of 9/11, the heartbreaking assassination of Charlie Kirk—a fellow brother in Christ—and yet another devastating school shooting, I’ve carried a grief that seemed to press on my chest with every headline and memory. My heart ached for his wife and children left behind, and in their loss I couldn’t help but remember my own.
That’s what a significant loss or trauma tends to do to all of us, isn’t it? It stirs up our own pain and suffering, the grief we’ve carried, and it reminds us in a raw way of what another now has to face. A new young widow. Two children who will grow up without their father.
I lost my dad when I was just four years old, and even now at 36, grief still finds me in unexpected ways. And now, two more children in the world will walk through the same heartbreak I know too well. But I’m here to tell you: there is hope. There is restoration. There is freedom. Even when, in the natural, we don’t understand.
When words fail, I often end up in the flower garden. This week was no different. I prayed, I cried, I cut blooms, and in the middle of it all the flowers held space for me. They always have—through the hardest moments of my life, through postpartum seasons, through both grief and joy. Flowers remind me that beauty and brokenness can exist together, and that hope can still bloom even in the darkest places. That you too can heal, if you take the time to process and walk through that healing.
When I began writing here, I wanted it to be a place of honesty—a space where I could process and share my experiences. Not just as a flower farmer and designer, but as a human. I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend—and my story is real. I’ve walked through significant pain, loss, and trauma in my own life, and I know what it feels like to sit in the valleys. I wanted this to be a place where my testimony could shine through in a raw and authentic way. And while I don’t want to dwell on grief or heaviness—that’s where we can get stuck—I do want to speak about the freedom, healing, and joy that Jesus has given me in place of sorrow. And if a message of hope and light even touches just one person, then it was all worth it. My vulnerability was worth it.
The words of Isaiah have been on my heart since last Tuesday’s events:
“To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion,
to give unto them beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning,
the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.”
— Isaiah 61:3 (KJV)
This scripture has been foundational in my own healing and in the work I’ve pursued since 2016 to help end human trafficking. The brokenness and trauma I’ve lived through, and the healing I’ve experienced through Jesus, has shown me firsthand that God can restore anything. I am living proof that He can redeem grief, heartache, and trauma.
On Sunday, my pastor said something that pierced my heart. Reflecting on Charlie Kirk’s death, he asked: “Because I share my beliefs openly—because I think differently than some people do—are there those who believe my children don’t deserve to grow up with a father?” That question wrecked me. As a child who grew up without a father, I know the pain of that reality. And no child deserves it. The very fact that thoughts like that exist shows how desperately our world needs love, light, and healing.
I also want to be clear — this is not about politics, it’s about humanity. It’s spiritual. A man was murdered for exercising his First Amendment right to use words, not violence. That reality is heavy because it reveals how far we’ve drifted from compassion and understanding.
And it’s not just isolated tragedies—it’s the steady decline of mental health in our nation. We were never designed to witness horrific acts of violence, scroll past them a minute later, and then carry on like nothing happened—packing lunches, doing the dishes, answering emails. That weight adds up. No one is immune to the strain, and the heaviness is real.
That’s why prayer, community, and intentional care matter so much right now. We need to check in on our friends and families. We need to carve out space for rest and self-care in a digitalized world that constantly demands more of us. And we need to remind ourselves that there are ways to combat this darkness—through faith, through honest conversations, through gathering together, through serving others, and yes, sometimes even through something as simple as flowers.
And we also need to remember that everyone grieves differently. Some cry, some withdraw, some get busy, some need to talk it out. There is no single “right way” to walk through grief, so let’s not pass judgment on each other. Instead, let’s extend compassion, patience, and understanding—because we’re all carrying burdens, and kindness costs nothing.
I want you to know this: you matter. Your life has value, your story has meaning, and this world is better with you in it.
Out of all that heaviness, I felt led to cut every sunflower we had ready—about 100 stems—wrapping them into bright, golden bouquets and placing them in our stand. Free for anyone who needed them, or available by donation. My intention wasn’t to raise money, but to push back against the darkness with light. Still, the community showed up in such a beautiful way. Together we raised $55 for The House of Promise, a local organization providing safe housing and resources for survivors of trafficking. I’m deeply grateful for the way our neighbors responded and the way this small act became something bigger than I imagined.
And if you’re reading this and carrying a heavy heart, please know you don’t have to walk through it alone. If you need prayer, reach out — I would be honored to pray with you and for you. And if you’re seeking a local church home in the Holt/Lansing/Mason area, you always have a seat at Journey Life Church in Holt, under pastors who care deeply about this community and about your heart. You belong, and you are not alone.
Maybe that’s why this phrase has been echoing in my heart lately: sharing light through flowers.
Flowers don’t erase loss, but they whisper hope. They don’t undo the darkness, but they remind us it never fully wins. On a week like this, I needed that reminder—and I believe others did too.
And in the middle of sorrow, we also found joy. Yesterday our beautiful son turned two. Celebrating his life was a blessing beyond measure. Gathering with family, hugging tighter, saying “I love you” and “I’m proud of you,” attending church and leaning into the message—all of it reminded me that even in a broken world, there is still so much to be grateful for.
That’s the heartbeat behind the blooms: there is too much evil in the world, and I refuse to let it win. I will keep planting, cutting, wrapping, and sharing light through flowers—for myself, for my community, and for anyone who needs the reminder that hope still blooms. And ultimately, that hope is always found in Jesus.
Sharing light through flowers,
Alex
