A Little Joy in a Dizzy Month

What two potted flowers taught me about love, waiting, and unexpected joy

For the past four weeks, I haven’t dared to walk alone.
Not because of fear, exactly. But because of a quiet, persistent dizziness — the kind that makes the world feel just slightly off balance. Enough to keep me home, even when the sun is out.

And I miss the outside.

So last week, my husband brought me flowers.
Two little chrysanthemums in soft, cheerful pots. One yellow and rust, the other pink and white. He didn’t just grab them on a whim. He’d been watching for days — passing the flower stand, scanning every row — but nothing seemed right.

“I waited,” he told me, “until I saw ones that felt like you.”

He saw me — not just the need for something bright, but me, as I was. That’s love, isn’t it? Not waiting for strength to return, not needing me to stand tall first. Just being there — in the days when the room spun and I didn’t. When everything was slower, quieter. When I wasn’t overflowing with life, but simply present, barely. And still, He brought beauty. Gently. Not because I was okay, but because he loved me — even there. Especially there.

These chrysanthemums now stand on the table where the sunlight falls just right.
They don't stop the dizziness. But they speak — of care, of tenderness, of being known.

And something in me steadies.

I keep taking pictures. Not because I need them — but because beauty invites attention. And because when someone loves you like that, you want to remember it.

Even more than that, I see God’s hand through it. In this quiet month of slow days and off-balance mornings, I keep receiving small glimmers of joy: a verse at just the right time, a kind message, a good article — and now, these two little flowers.

"In the multitude of anxious thoughts within me, Your consolations brought delight to my soul." (Psalm 94:19)

🌱 Have you received a small joy lately — one that helped you keep going?