He was the first in his rank to rise, and he did so bravely. Without regard to the drought or overpowering heat, he unfurled his thick cape and gazed steadily into the day.
His task was to rise, to stand, and nothing more. He was of the front guard, a wayshower, and he was determined to perform his mission with all the might he could muster.
The meager supply of morning dew evaporated quickly beneath the blazing sun’s gaze, but it was enough to encourage him. He assayed his resources. He had strong roots and faith in the soil that gave him birth. And although there was no breeze to bring him comfort, he saw the stand of woods to the south and judged he could endure the sun until its leafy boughs would shield him.
As the day wore on, he looked about him. It was really quite beautiful here in the field. Goldenrod blossomed at its edge and the air was thick with bees. Once he accustomed himself to it, he discovered the sun’s hot rays were actually pleasing. He flung his cape open further to let more of its stimulating light play against him. And he encouraged the troops around him to stand with him and witness the day.
Late in the afternoon, he saw an old man walking up the far end of his row, studying the troops closely. A distance behind him a woman walked and two small dogs. He heard the soft crunch of the man’s heavy boots as they edged nearer and nearer. The old man stopped directly before him and bent over staring.
“Martha! Look!” the old man shouted to the woman behind him. “Look, Martha! A blossom!” The man laughed, his wrinkled face breaking into a grin so bright it rivaled the sun. “We’re going to have potatoes after all! Hallelujah!”
And the blossom straightened more and was humbled and glad to have triggered such joy.