Dandelions

It has yet to feel completely natural to be vulnerable for me . . . if you've ever been subject to an lengthy pause while talking to me, you may have been privy to an inner turmoil barely contained. You see, I long for nothing more than to hold out my hands, as it were, with my life in them and say - SEE! This is me. I'm Greg. - and I always picture myself as a 5 year old when I do this. Not sure why, but I think 5 would be the age that I was last innocent. It seems that since that tender age, there has been something deep and dark that I've always felt near, something oppressive, something to gain victory over.

And so, though I sense that being vulnerable and open is tied into being fully alive, and that the things I see as valuable and of prime importance in friendships stem from openness, I hesitate. Not always, but often. Perhaps there is wisdom in this - the whole pearls and swine analogy. Perhaps the best and truest friendships are cultivated over time, not short circuited by going deep instantly. But really, my main motive is self preservation - I've been burnt before, and it's not that great. It stings, deeply, like your very soul somehow got stabbed.

And, partly because of this, and partly inspired by this, I had come to see myself as deserving of my fate - that somehow, I deserved to be burnt when I extended a hand of friendship, that I deserved to not just feel, but BE abandoned, and that the most use I had in life was to be used and then spit out when my usefulness was spent. Understand, it wasn't like I ever wanted to feel this way; but as a young one, you can only bear the brunt of a lie for so long before it starts to ring true.

In the midst of this feeling useless, I came across a song by Five Iron Frenzy, who have since become one of my favorite bands of life. The track is called "Dandelions", and I think it captures what I'm trying to say better than I am.


In a field of yellow flowers,
underneath the sun,
bluest eyes that spark with lightning,
boy with shoes undone.
He is young, so full of hope,
reveling in tiny dreams,
filling up, his arms with flowers,
right for giving any queen.

Running to her beaming bright,
while cradling his prize.
A flickering of yellow light,
within his mother's eyes.
She holds them to her heart,
keeping them where they'll be safe,
clasped within her very marrow,
dandelions in a vase.

She sees love, where anyone else would see weeds.
all hope is found.
Here is everything he needs.

Fathomless your endless mercy,
weight I could not lift.
Where do I fit in this puzzle,
what good are these gifts?
Not a martyr, or a saint,
scarcely can I struggle through.
All that I have ever wanted,
was to give my best to you.

Lord, search my heart,
create in me something clean.
Dandelions
you see flowers in these weeds.

Gently lifting hands to heaven,
softened by the sweetest hush,
a Father sings over his children,
loving them so very much.
More than words could warrant,
deeper than the darkest blue,
more than sacrifice could merit,
Lord, I give my heart to you.



I especially love the first chorus - She sees love where anyone else would see weeds. I mean really, how could this mother react in another way? Her little man just bravely picked a bouquet for her - who cares if they're "weeds"?

And I love how this theme carries into the next half of the song, where, as an adult (or so I picture it) the singer expresses that he feels unworthy, yet all his unworthiness and failed attempts are still so beautiful to God . . .

I'm not going to sit here merely dreaming of making a difference. I know I have already in the lives of so many people, whether it be a simple laugh, a hug when needed, truth spoken in love, or love spoken truly . . . but to me, it all seems like a filed of dandelions sometimes, more weeds than beauty. I feel like I'm my own worst enemy, like there is a way of life that I truly want to live out, and the only thing stopping me is me. And, too often, I succeed in doing just that.

None of my really deep plans seem bad to me. I'm not setting out to hurt anyone. I've never woken up to say - hey, how can I really screw someone over today. Yet too often, I've been more a source of pain than a source of love. I'm not content to stay that way (and thank God I haven't), but it is lamentable.


There is comfort though, in knowing that if no one else really gets where you're coming from, if no one else believes the integrity of your character or the purity of your motives, at least God does. And when the world sees nought but weeds, our Father sees a radiant bouquet, picked with nothing more than love for the Lover of our soul.

If you took the time to read this, thank you. Though I definitely get some enjoyment and satisfaction out of writing, you're the real reason I write. I write about the thigns I write about because this thing called life is too grand a thing to keep to yourself, and my best attempts at conversation tend to result in me being either too closed or far too open for the level of friendship involved.

Be blessed,

Greg