Each long summer evening, as dusk settles on my neighborhood, there’s a show that’s better than anything on cable or dish.  The show starts gently, without fanfare, yet bursting with beauty, dance and song in every movement.  Slowly, like the coming of night, it begins—shining like the stars, taking one’s breath away…bringing hope.

I discovered the show one typically harried night, with laundry running, a child in the tub, a kitchen in need of cleaning, a report due at work and the anxiety that comes when there aren’t enough hours in the day.  My husband, Steve, just in from mowing the lawn, told me our neighbors, Don and Eunice Neal, had invited us to watch the flowers bloom.

“Ah, to watch the flowers bloom,” I sighed, wishing I had the time.  But, I was intrigued:  “Flowers that bloom at night?” I thought.  “Hmmmm.”  I quickly put my plan together: get the little one out of the tub and in her jammies, call our older one over from firefly catching, leave the clothes to wrinkle in the dryer, and head out to see the show.

What followed was truly a breath-taking sight.  Don’s lush bushes of wild Missouri Primroses sported dozens of yellow-green buds.  As darkness grew, each bulb “popped” open, and the soft yellow petals unfolded and opened as a child’s hand reveals a tiny treasure.  Each fragile bulb’s bursting seemed to stop time for a moment—to focus my harried heart on such glory I felt almost unworthy to be in its presence.  The buds opened effortlessly, bounteously, blessing each of us with their innocence and beauty.  In an instant, when there seemed no time, a miracle cut through the clutter of my life. And in that instant, my world was transformed.

The show goes on every summer night.  ‘Bout 8:30 p.m. or so, you’ll find Don, Eunice and assorted neighbors, family and friends vying for a front-row seat.  They are gracious hosts, and freely share this blessed show with all who stop to see.  The audience, with lawn chairs, bug candles and snacks were a curious spectacle last 4^th of July.  Police officers, on patrol for illegal fireworks, stopped and asked why the group had gathered.  “To watch the flowers bloom,” came the sincere reply, which fell on somewhat skeptical ears—not unlike those of a tired working mom one prior evening.

Since the night the primroses danced for me, life has slowed down a bit.  Oh, I still have just as much to do, and just as many people depending on me.  But the flowers reminded me that beauty is there for the basking, calling me to put the stuff of my life in proper perspective.  I used to think “seeing what’s on TV” was relaxing.  More often than not, all the channel surfing did was waste my time and leave me empty—like junk food that temporarily fills the hunger but never really satisfies.  A few moments with the primroses did more to nourish me than endless hours in front of the tube.

I don’t make it to the show every night, but the primroses and the Neals seem to understand.  For whenever I do return, I’m greeted with the same warm welcome and spectacular beauty that touched me the last time I visited.  For these, I have all the time in the world.