Some flowers only bloom when they’re planted in the right soil. That was true for me. I first moved to Foxboro, Massachusetts, as a single mother with my infant daughter, Darcy. Instantly, I was drawn to its New England charm, friendly people and rich history—“Founded in 1778,” I bragged. I joined St. Mark’s Episcopal Church where I sang in the choir and taught Sunday school. I attended town meetings in the high school auditorium and enjoyed spring walks past large yards bright with canary-yellow forsythia bushes. A few years later, my only sister, my best friend, moved to Foxboro, too. At church, I met my second husband, Dean. For more than 25 years, I bloomed in Foxboro. It had everything and everyone I loved.
Then, when Darcy was a few years out of college, she moved to Alameda, California, to be near friends. I missed her terribly. A year later my beloved sister died. Not long after, Dean was diagnosed with lung cancer. He only made it eight months. My heart was shattered. Lord, how can I stay in Foxboro when it reminds me of all I’ve lost? I prayed. Show me where to go.
I moved to Alameda. It was a beautiful Victorian island, and I was grateful to spend more time with Darcy. I even got involved with a church and made a few friends. Still, I couldn’t help but miss Foxboro.
One spring day, browsing the aisles of a nursery, a flash of yellow caught my eye. Forsythia bushes! Nostalgia gripped me. I blinked back tears. “I miss you, Foxboro,” I whispered, pretending to look at some ceramic pots lined up on a shelf. A large white one seemed to demand my attention. That’ll be perfect in my living room, I thought.
I turned it over to look at the price. Instead I found a stamp: “New England Pottery, Foxboro, Massachusetts,” it read. A piece of home, right here, clear across the country. I took it as a sign. God would help me bloom, right where I was.
