🌸 Red, White, and BLOOM: How a Flower Garden Taught Me to Hold My Peace 🌱

About four years ago, I planted red poppy seeds.

It was a different season of my life—before the news reporting, before the station politics, the double standards, and the ache of trying to prove I belonged in a space that gave me no celebration, no compensation, not even a simple “Happy Birthday.” Back then, I was just a mother, newly arrived in a town I didn’t know, holding the key to a house I had bought sight unseen, in a strange city, not knowing a single soul. I had spent every penny I had earned to purchase the house, and had nothing left but hope, a vision, and sheer faith in my pocket.

The house was supposed to be my fresh start. My independence. My American dream. 

The first people I met here? I didn’t always know who to trust. I spent a lot of time alone, partly by choice, partly by necessity. I told myself I would rather be alone and lonely than surrounded by the wrong people—and for a while, that was true. But even then, I still found myself crossing paths with people who didn’t just fail to care for me—they actively sought to harm, manipulate, and control me. Some used subtle threats, others relied on intimidation and psychological games. I could feel them trying to chip away at my confidence, trying to search for an opening to twist my words, silence my voice. So I stayed in my own space as much as I could. It was a kind of protective exile.

And yet, it was hard. Very hard. By then, I was already carrying the weight of years of isolation—those long, strange days of quarantine when gathering with others was forbidden, when connection was criminalized and loneliness became a way of life. The world had changed, and so had I. I had learned how to survive in silence, but surviving isn’t the same as living.

That first year in this new place was marked by deep transition, by quiet dinners alone and prayers whispered through tears. There was a grief that hung in the background, almost invisible, like a shadow you can’t quite shake. It was the kind of sorrow that creeps in when you realize that no matter how much of yourself you give—your time, your energy, your heart—it still might never be enough for people who never intended to value your presence in the first place. 

But in that dark soil of betrayal, when I felt most discarded, most unseen, God whispered something sacred to my soul:

“You are not buried. You came here to be planted. Plant these seeds that were given to you….” It was a direct communication, but it also served as a metaphor and a signpost that pointed to other areas of my life where I began to make the most out of everything I was handed. I treated each story I wrote like I was caring for my own child. 

And those words changed everything.

So I planted the red poppy seeds. With trembling hands and a weary heart, I scattered little black jewels of potential into the soil. I prayed—earnestly—for beauty to rise from broken ground. I didn’t know if they would take. I didn’t know if I would. But I chose hope anyway.

And then—I waited.

Year after year, nothing.

The flowerbed stood empty, a quiet, calm mirror to my own waiting—my own unanswered prayers. The poppies did not come. Not the first year. Not even the second. Just like the offers I thought would come after graduation. Just like the respect I thought would follow hard work.

It reminded me of my birthday two years ago. I had just graduated with my bachelor’s degree—making the dean’s list, earning all A’s, and even drawing the attention of a state representative. I’d probably driven thousands of miles in the Upper Peninsula, telling stories that mattered and paying for the ‘wear-and-tear’ myself. I was the intern who became the reliable go-to. Yet when the day came—my day—not one person at CBS remembered. Not the producer. Though she was the last person I’d expect to care. Not the director. Not the anchor who once passed me that “get to know you” survey where I wrote: “My birthday is June 29th,” and “My favorite show is Bewitched.” Not the peers I graduated with, or the undergrads I did my best to nurture in such a harsh environment.

One of the anchors—kind, but careful not to rock the boat—had written me a thank-you card with a hand-drawn sketch from that show inspired by that questionairre months prior to that. I still have it. I really thought that meant something.

But on that birthday? The reality was it didn’t mean anything to anyone I worked with.

What did matter to them that day was what I could deliver—and as I would come to learn - whether I’d be allowed to deliver it at all. Whether I would allow my voice - and the voice of my community - to be silenced. And I did not allow it.

A story tip came in about possible corruption in Menominee. I thought there probably was some truth to it, but I had no gas money left to chase it, and the people pushing it at me had already lowered their masks revealing themselves as untrustworthy and ill-intentioned toward me. These people from my old life tipping me off still called themselves my friends, yet they were so obviously one-sided and couldn’t think of anything but what they could get out of me, when it was my birthday and I had only ever done anything but pour friendship and care into them for several years prior to that. They had proven to me that they were fair-weather friends. I didn’t even bother to remind them it was my birthday, because by that point I didn’t even care if they knew or remembered at all. I wanted to see the reality of how they were treating me, how they really thought of me, play out in real-time like a slow-motion video inside an action scene. I wanted to let the dust settle. I simply and professionally told my director I had received a tip, what it was about, and that I was open to it, and when my director passed on their idea, I was beyond relieved. It was divine intervention at work. Still, it was Friday. A workday. The deadline clock was ticking. And I needed a story.

So I followed my instincts—back to the fire department. Months earlier, I had covered a training drill there. It was the first story that made me feel like a real journalist: independent, respected, seen. On the previous story assignment with the fire station, I felt a professional belonging I hadn’t felt in years, and god spoke to me there just in the flow of the day. So on this post-graduation birthday story-hunt I showed up to the fire station unannounced and asked about an upcoming Fourth of July fundraiser. The captain on duty didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about doing an interview, which was understandable —but he said yes. That was all I needed. I got the interview, edited the footage, wrote the script—put my heart into it, as I always had.

But on that day, of all days, the story got picked apart more than usual. Maybe the captain was too photogenic. Maybe the producer had personal reasons. Or maybe she just didn’t want me to win. I didn’t know, and it wasn’t really my problem. I was showing up to life, doing the honest work, trying to support my family. And she came at me hard that day.

I was the same me, doing the same hard work I had always done. And these firefighters had shown me decency. Dignity. Humanity. At that point, the firefighters had already invested some of their time. They were part of my journey now. And I wasn’t going to let their time be treated with contempt over someone else’s issues.

So I stood firm. Not with outrage—but with quiet, unshakable resolve.

I was accused of insubordination.

On my birthday. When all I was doing was my very best. For my community. To provide for my family.

By the very people who couldn’t offer me even basic recognition for my work—much less a job with fair reimbursement.

But I held my peace. And I soldiered on.

And somewhere, in the unseen soil of my life, I knew—God was doing something. Something quiet, but bold.

Still, the poppies I had planted didn’t bloom. The seeds remained hidden, dormant. Forgotten. Like the parts of me I had buried just to survive. Eventually, I gave up on the poppies. I even forgot them. I planted native Michigan wildflowers instead—something I thought could thrive. I stopped hoping for poppies, the same way I slowly stopped hoping for that newsroom to become a place of grace.

And that was okay. I had learned that not everything planted is meant to bloom in our time.

But this week—this week was different.

The world felt heavy. A friend I hold dear to my heart lost someone. Overseas, peace wavered as our nation’s fighter pilots lead the way in a stealth mission to keep our homeland safe. My son—the baby I once carried—is now becoming a pilot in a world as uncertain as it is demanding. And I prayed. I prayed for him. His safety. The safety of all children. For peace for this country. For those in the war-torn areas of the world. For the courage to keep holding on.

And then, Monday afternoon, I came home. I stepped outside—

And there they were.

Red poppies.

After four years. After I had stopped expecting. Twenty-nine paper-thin crimson petals, rising triumphantly from the soil, scattered among last year’s blue and white wildflowers.

A flag in bloom. A victory not of my making, but of God’s design. I showed my mom, and she even pointed out that the flowers almost identically match the wallpaper I had just picked out for my house.

I hadn’t planted patriotism. But here it was: red, white, and blue. Blooming in peace on Michigan earth. No press release. No assignment. Not broadcasting. Just grace, growing.

I always remember him that way—my baby. I nursed him in Army fatigues and combat boots, propped up in cramped stairwells and supply closets, wherever I could find ten quiet minutes between duty assignments on an air base in med-command. I pumped between field exercises and briefings, storing milk in insulated bags like it was liquid gold. I made his baby food myself from scratch—organic carrots, steamed sweet potatoes, apples slow-cooked into sauce—because I wanted his little body nourished by love, not preservatives.

I brought him to my company Christmas party when he was just two—small enough to still sleep in my arms, big enough to be completely, utterly obsessed with the Disney PLANES movie. I remember the look on his face when I walked him into the hangar, when he laid eyes on a real Chinook up close, we stepped inside it: its blades stretching like giant wings. I smiled. But inside, I was watching something begin. Something sacred.

Now he’s not the little boy clutching a toy plane—he’s learning to take charge of the cockpit. Not just a child dreaming of flight, but a young man preparing to carry responsibility through the clouds.

And somehow, right when I thought I was fresh out of hope—God sent me a custom bouquet of flowers. And they couldn’t have been more perfect.

Poppies in bloom, bold as blood and grace. White and blue Michigan native wildflowers tangled beneath. A living emblem. A gentle reminder. That nothing is ever forgotten. That prayers planted in faith may bloom long after we stop watching.

No orders. No headlines. Just a quiet moment on a Michigan afternoon, where peace came pushing up through the soil.

And what makes it all the more powerful?

The red poppy is more than a flower. It is a national symbol of sacrifice—recognized since World War I to honor those who served and died in all wars. The American Legion Auxiliary leads the way in promoting National Poppy Day, celebrated each year on the Friday before Memorial Day. It’s a day when Americans are invited to wear a red poppy in remembrance of the fallen and in support of the living who have worn our nation’s uniform. It’s a symbol of the price of peace. And God had given me 29 of them, a procession of poppies for each day of the month of June leading up to my birthday.

And this past weekend, the day before they appeared, I walked the streets of my town for the Corpus Christi procession. Not as a reporter. Not as an observer. But as a member of my faith community. I wasn’t holding a mic. I was holding a hymn. I wasn’t producing a segment. I was being present. People knelt on sidewalks. Held their rosaries. Officers blocked the streets. And Christ, in the monstrance, passed by, blessing the streets of my city.

And I smiled. Not for a camera. But because I finally felt seen. By God. By my community. By the soil that held both my heartbreak and my hope.

The garden had become its own procession. A slow, sacred march of God’s faithfulness made visible.

Those poppies weren’t just flowers.

They were His answer:

Hold your peace. I see you. I have heard your prayers.

In the news world, where every moment demands urgency, and truth is so often twisted, I had almost forgotten what real peace feels like. Not the kind we report in the middle of a fragile Middle East ceasefire agreement involving a country with a history of not adhering fully to the terms of its own agreements—but the kind that lives in the soul. And in my own front yard, God reminded me.

These poppies are more than blossoms.

They are evidence that what is planted in faith will rise—

not on our deadline, but on His.

They are reminders that even when the world forgets your birthday, your worth, your name—God remembers.

That where others sow contempt, you can still choose to sow peace.

That where injustice reigns, you can still bloom in grace.

Because this year? This birthday? It’s different.

Drastically different than two years ago, when I quietly ate alone, the phone silent, the house still. When I felt like I had been forgotten by the world I once poured myself into.

This year, I’m getting invitations—to dinners, to gatherings, to places where people want me, not just what I do. I’ve represented women in the field of emergency management for a graduate-level course at my University. I’m surrounded by community members and friends who cheer me on, who want to build with me. My new employer planned for my birthday before it has even crossed my mind. Just in the past few months I’ve modeled for a friend’s business website. I’ve been invited to do a podcast spotlighting domestic violence issues, to model for a friend’s jewelry line, to join a club of water-performers, and to host a table at a Right to Life dinner this coming fall.

My heart is full of love. And so is my life.

So if you’ve ever planted something in tears—

If you’ve ever waited on a prayer, a breakthrough, a bloom—a promise god personally made to you. 

If you’ve ever stood your ground, even when it cost you—

Hold your peace.

Your garden is growing.

His promises are coming.

In His time, the bloom will come.

And here they were.

Blooming not just for me, but perhaps for my son. For all who serve. For all who wait. For all who wonder if their quiet sacrifices will ever be seen.

——> Click here to go to that story I wrote two years ago with the Fire Department

Here is a cap cut mashup video of the poppies in my garden. The song about “sweat” seemed fitting for the 100 degree weather that brought them to bloom. :)