Consider the Dahlias

“They look like Dr. Seuss flowers!”

So declared my 10-year-old upon seeing the rows and rows of dahlias at the Meijer Gardens Dahlia Show in Grand Rapids. And I never looked at them the same way again. 

Dahlias captured my imagination the first time I attended the show. I was struck by the bold colors, the varied shapes and sizes, and the exquisite patterns. According to Better Homes and Gardens, there over 20,000 cultivars of dahlias.

Having no expertise in gardening, or even basic house plant tending, I had to look up the word “cultivars.” It means (I think) all the varieties developed through the process of cultivation by selective breeding.

It’s the answer to the question I always had at the Dahlia Show: How can these all be dahlias? One has a moon-faced coral pink blossom. Another looks like a purple spiky sea urchin. And next to those are a painter’s palette of pom-poms that look like lollipops.

If these are all dahlias, then almost anything could be a dahlia? Apparently not. There are no blue dahlias because they lack a certain enzyme. I’m surprised I only just learned that fact, having attended the annual show at the Gardens for over a decade. How did I fail to notice there was no blue in that sea of color? I was probably too busy considering the dahlias. They are mesmerizing. And yes, Seussical.

I’m not a photographer any more than I’m a gardener, but I bring my good camera to the Dahlia Show and do my best. Photographs don’t do justice to some flowers, but dahlia patterns are so striking, the magnificence manages to find its way to you even in 2-D. Some varieties have the look of an advanced math problem. From what I’ve read, dahlias don’t appear to follow the Fibonacci sequence, though I still feel the urge to start counting, as if there might be a hidden code. There are deeper truths to discover, but they aren’t secret: beauty, elegance, symmetry, harmony. And glory. The dahlias are indeed telling the glory of God.

Testimony was a weighty, almost scary, word to me when I was young. Testimony was what someone shared on a Sunday night service, usually a sinner-to-saint sort of story — wonderful, to be sure, but not something I could relate to as an ordinary “church kid.”

At summer camp during high school, each night ended with a campfire and a time of testimony. Campfire testimonies were generally about pretty big problems back at home and school. (We know today’s young people are struggling with mental health concerns, but they were 40 years ago too. We just didn’t have a clear enough lens to see it or the vocabulary to name it.) I sat there in the dark wondering, even fretting: Am I supposed to talk now? Is my testimony good enough? Is it “big” enough? I had bigger problems too, but I didn’t necessarily want to share those. At least not with a hundred other teens, some of whom I didn’t know, and most of whom I couldn’t see in the dark. We can share our stories anonymously (sometimes it’s the only way we dare let difficult words escape our lips), but I’m not sure we can testify anonymously. 

Testimony is about witness and community. It does indeed take the form of “I once was lost, but now I’m found.” Praise God! I’m thankful I heard stories like that in church and around the campfire. But I wish 16-year-old me had realized that testimony was much bigger than those big stories because it includes our small stories too.

“Small things make the big things grow — yeast that bubbles in the dough,” wrote Shirley Erena Murray. Small acts of love can make a big difference. But we shouldn’t forget about small words of testimony offered here and there, words that might find a home in another’s heart for years and years, opening a door to wonder, gratitude, or encouragement.

The school where I teach invites students to participate in “Thoughtful Reader” book groups every winter. I once led a group of third and fourth grade students in a discussion on The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo. Edward is a vainglorious china rabbit who gets lost and finds home. At one point on his journey, Edward is broken, smashed against the edge of a counter top. The group talked about the importance of that moment, and one young boy, recognizing that Edward’s story is everyone’s story, said, “We have to be broken inside too.” I haven’t seen that student since his family left Grand Rapids a few years ago. He would probably be surprised that his testimony remains in my heart. It reminds me that every (good) story is the story of finding home by being made new.

My little one’s Seussical insight was a word of testimony to me as well, a call to remember that God is a god of wonder and whimsy. When I travel out to the lakeshore or farther away to the mountains or just a few blocks over to the grocery store, may the beauty of God’s creation lead me to both awe and merriment: the spiritual discipline of delight! And, more importantly, I hope I remember to testify to that delight. It’s never meant just for us.

The dahlias will be back at Meijer Gardens this week (August 24 & 25). I have no connection to the Gardens or their marketing department, but I’ll issue an invitation nevertheless—in singsong, Seuss-like rhyme, of course.    

Consider the dahlias,
consider them, friend.
Of patterns and colors
and size without end.

They teach us a lesson
undoubtedly true:
If God cares for these,
then God must care for you. 

So when you see flowers
in field, farm, or woods,
Remember the beauty
of a world made so good.