Since my dad loved to take photos and since we didn’t want to order flowers for the service, we ended up printing out a bunch of his flower photos (6 or 8 to a sheet, so they were smallish), then tacking them to colored popsicle sticks and “planting” them in little pots of African Violets.
It was an incredibly silly idea–one that took far too much time and effort in the conception, though, in actuality, very little in the construction (16 pots for 8 tables, with the extra flower photos tossed about like seed packets). But it kept many hands busy for a little while and I can’t fault that. It is the kind of crafty crap that has earned me the nickname of “Marge Stewart” (yes, that would be a merger of the blue-haired bombshell and the “lifestyle” maven). Still and all, it was cute. And my father would have hated it. Still and all, we did it.
My best friend’s mother, who is Catholic, picked one of the photos up as she left and said “these are such nice little prayer cards.” And that’s just what they were for the man who believed in here, now, and flowers. Prayer cards.
I have yet to unpack those that were left at the church. My daughter has something in mind for them–and seeing as she is her mother’s daughter, I’m terrified of what that may end up being.
Still and all … we had a project to do during the week of his service and now we have a memory of a silly little crap project that my dad would have hated, but would have loved the story that will bloom from those silly little prayer cards as, at future family gatherings, we tell it as if it mattered. Because it didn’t. And it also did.