There is a specific kind of dishonesty in a sun-drenched windowsill.

A million years ago, I set these grocery store lilies in Mother’s old ironstone pitcher. Alstroemeria, for those counting. Sure, they’re cute. Maybe elegant. And any bouquet carries the edge of a household blessing—a Berakho. But to me, this picture makes me wonder if I’m trying to file my days under “G” for Gentle.

While I pour the tea, a cedar-stained wind shakes the curtains, carrying the sharpness of wet limestone. I hear the non-stop dialogue of a Red-Eyed Vireo. Are-you-there? I-am-here. He knows that holiness lives in the details of how we coexist on this Tennessee ridge.

We don’t want our grace to be like this photo: filtered, staged, and silent. But grace isn’t a porcelain pitcher, is it? I’m thinking it’s in the oak tree across the street that cracks under the wind, making room for sunlight to spill across the cedar glade for the first time in thirty years.

Today’s Joy Lesson won’t tell you not to buy flowers. No ma’am. I ain’t saying that. I’m just wondering if I spent a whole lotta years setting up a photo shoot when maybe I could’ve grown a calm, beautiful life just by keeping things honest. And maybe seeing the goodness in a real, not-so-pretty day?

Dear Me, 

If you catch yourself trying to “pretty up” a structural crack in your life, walk away from the vase. Look around with the precision of a triage nurse. Go pick grass-scented weeds and wild blackberries and arrange them with passion and awe.

The tea is cold. The afternoon is stepping aside for the arrival of cardinals at the feeder. And there is a tender, dazzling mercy in finally choosing the weeds.