Like most young girls, I always dreamed of a guy sending me flowers. I will never forget when this dream came true. Mines were not delivered by a florist, but by my beau, Terry. In fact, he hid them in my locker on Valentine’s Day. I will never forget how tickled I felt as I kissed his blushing face.
In the years that followed, Terry sent me countless beautiful flowers as our love blossomed. Nevertheless, after seven years of courting, as well as seven years of marriage, I no longer receive his flowers. Not for any sad reason, not for financial reasons, but to mark a precious memory.
As I held my beautiful newborn baby daughter, Savannah, a nurse walked into my room, carrying a beautiful bouquet of a dozen perfectly pink roses. I thought she had made a mistake. They couldn’t possibly be mine. I had never received a dozen roses at one time, and the color was wrong; Terry’s roses were always red, never pink!
As I read the card, there was no mistaking my husband’s handwriting as well as his heart. His words will be forever treasured in my heart:
To My Beautiful Girls
I love you both so very much
Terry
(I mean Dad!)
I smiled at his addition of the word Dad. Like the roses changing from red to pink and his signature from Terry to Dad, our love for each other was no longer shared by just us two. Our love could now be seen in this wonderful being I cuddled in my arms.
Usually with change comes uncertainty of the unknown. Since our teenage dating years, we always knew that children would be included in our wonderful life with each other.
Looking at the word Dad once more, my tears began to flow. We had previously suffered a heartbreaking miscarriage, countless trips to the doctors, seemingly endless tests, and disabling drug therapy. No longer did these important sacrifices compare to this privilege of my husband signing this simple but special three-letter word. This wonderful man had prayed with me when I had asked him to leave me because I could not give him children. He said that we could always adopt children, but he could not adopt me.
Peeking his head into my hospital room, my husband’s blushing face reminded me of that shy teenage boy who had stolen my heart on Valentine’s Day fourteen years ago. As I once again kissed his blushing face, I could not help but notice the pink flowers matched his face as well as the beautiful and perfectly round face of our daughter. I smiled at the thought that Savannah’s first dozen roses came from her sweet daddy. It was the first dozen roses for Savannah as well as her mother. But more important, it was the first time Terry was blessed to write that priceless three-letter word—Dad.
This precious memory does not need to be frozen in time, because it will warm a very special place in my heart for eternity.
On Valentine’s Day, as well as many other special occasions, florists are busy arranging their beautiful flowers, particularly roses. Nevertheless, you will never find them making an arrangement for me. I have already been given the most beautiful roses on the most perfect day of my life.
What else could a woman want?