A Tradition in Bloom

Every spring, the pasture comes alive with bursts of fiery red-orange, the Indian Paintbrush flowers spreading like wildfire against the green grass, erasing winter’s touch. It’s a sight I’ve cherished for years, but what makes it truly special is the hands that gather them—hands that once belonged to a little boy, now a man grown with a family of his own.

When my eldest son was small, he would run through the fields, plucking handfuls of those wild blooms just for me. No special occasion, no prompting—he simply saw beauty and wanted to share it, a gesture so simple yet so full of love.

The years have passed, carrying with them the weight of time and change. That little boy has grown into a father, his hands no longer small, yet just as steady and sure as they ever were. And every spring, without fail, he still reaches down and picks those same wildflowers from the pasture, bringing them to me with that same familiar grin. No grand gesture, no need for explanation—just a quiet act of love, reminding me that some things, thankfully, never change.

How grateful I am for this thread that ties us together—the bond only a mother knows, woven into something as simple and beautiful as a handful of wildflowers. The seasons will keep changing, and life will keep moving, but I know that as long as the Indian Paintbrush blooms in the pasture, he’ll still find them for me. And I will treasure them, always.

Time moves forward, reshaping life with its responsibilities and joys. Yet in that simple act—his hand selecting the blooms, their vibrant colors blazing against the green—I see the boy he was and the man he is, and the love that endures between us.

And while some traditions are written in books and others carved in stone, ours grows wild and free—scattered throughout the pasture, returning each spring, just like always, carried across generations.

Photo Credit: Janine Sterry Pittman