The Dandelion

On Wednesday, Dec. 16, I arrived at Roscoes Coffee Bar and Tap Room in Richmond, Indiana, with my husband and daughters for a much-anticipated meet-up with my good friend and former college roommate.

We placed our orders, rounded up our rowdy crew, and settled in the spacious back room.

I was instantly drawn to a vibrant painting of a dandelion displayed on the wall across from where I was sitting. The composition and colors were striking — sparkling white dandelion seeds, half-blown, against a shimmering blue and green background.

I crossed the room to get a closer look. The subject itself brought back so many memories. Who doesn’t immediately think of the simplicity and joy of childhood when they see a dandelion’s delicate seeds ready to take flight? Besides, I used to take bouquets of yellow dandelions to my mother as a gift, and years later even drew her a sketch of a little-girl-me presenting her with the cheerful weed.

As I stood looking at the painting, I briefly wondered whether it was for sale. I would have liked to hang it in my daughters’ room. But we were on a month-long road trip from Texas to Ohio and back again, and it was just a dandelion after all…surely I could find a similar picture that would suffice. So I contented myself with a quick snapshot on my phone.

A Gift from Joy

When our Great Christmas Road Trip was over and I downloaded the photos from my phone, I took a closer look at the paintings below the dandelion.

“Live in Joy,” one read.

And, “Hello Joy,” read the other.

Then I knew I just had to inquire about whether the painting was for sale.

You see, one year before our visit to Roscoes, just days before Christmas, we lost who would have been our third child in miscarriage. She was only about 7 weeks old in utero. We even got to see her little heartbeat before she left us.

We weren’t planning to name her, but the name had come to me the following Sunday: Joy.

Just as I had gifted my mom with dandelions as a little girl, my little girl was gifting me with one.

So I emailed Roscoes, sharing how the painting and the messages below it had struck me. The owners in turn put me in touch with the artist, Lynda Henderson. I found out that the painting had been at Roscoes for a local art show, and the owners liked it so she had left it there.

Lynda was touched by our story and offered us a generous deal on the painting and went out of her way to try to find a shipping solution.

All in the Family

The story of how it ended up traveling from Richmond to San Antonio is its own sort of miracle — the kind that awesome, resourceful grandparents bring about.

My grandmother found out that my uncle was planning to drive past Richmond on Route 70 on his way home from a business trip to Indianapolis. He agreed to pick up the painting from Lynda, and I helped them arrange to meet at a small restaurant close to Lynda’s home.

Right about the time the pickup was supposed to take place, I received a text from Lynda saying she hadn’t heard from my uncle yet and was concerned. Moments later I got a call from my uncle: “Um, Valerie, I’m here — But you were getting a painting, right? Not a mirror?”

Lynda learned later that a woman who worked at the restaurant used to own an antique store and was expecting a Linda (!) to come by to pick up the mirror. Luckily, my uncle had taken a closer look at his parcel before driving away!

Lynda (the artist) arrived at the restaurant shortly afterward to give him the painting, which he took back to Ohio with him.

We were content that the painting was in my family’s possession — we figured one way or another we would eventually get it.

Several weeks later, as I was standing outside watching the girls play, my husband popped his head out the door and told me, “Your Aunt Debby is bringing the painting! She’ll be here on the 30th!”

Apparently, my great aunt and uncle had been visiting with my other set of grandparents about a week prior, and had mentioned that they were planning to stop in San Antonio near the end of their own cross-country road trip. My great uncle had been stationed here about 50 years ago, and had never seen the River Walk, so it was on their bucket list.

My grandfather tracked down the painting (which was at my parents’ house by then) and my dad brought it over for them to take up to Cleveland until their trip.

So this painting of a weed that captured my gaze in Richmond, Indiana, ended up traveling to Cleveland, Ohio, via Galion, then on to several National Parks, Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, and El Paso, and…finally…arrived in San Antonio on the last day of March.

A Call to Joy

I have had three months to ponder the circumstances surrounding this painting. I still remember the moment that Joy’s name came to me — how right it seemed, but also how ironic. The painting echoes that moment — it brings delight on a superficial level, but it also epitomizes my struggle with joy.

Some describe joy as an emotion of deep-seated happiness that persists even amidst trial and suffering. The prior year had brought its share of suffering, to be sure — but even in the “good times” I struggled — and still struggle — with feelings that were quite the opposite of joy.

How appropriate that God nudged me with a dandelion. It’s a weed, for goodness’ sake! And a dying one at that! But a weed that children love, a weed that engenders hope, happiness, and joy: the hopefulness of making wishes, the magical happiness that comes from watching those sparkling white wings swirl through the air — the promise of life in the midst of death.

So now the painting — “Joy’s painting,” we call it — hangs in our home. Reminding me to be grateful. Reminding me that hope endures. Reminding me not to give up on joy.

Thank you, Lynda. Thank you, folks at Roscoes Coffee. Thank you, Emily, for suggesting we meet there. Thank you, Grandma. Thank you, Uncle Patrick. Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa and Dad. Thank you, Steve, for encouraging me. Thank you, Uncle Mike and Aunt Debby.

Thank you, Joy.