Flowers for the fairest.

IN A FILE IN MY DAD'S OFFICE, after his death, I find his account of a day 20 years earlier. Mom was in the hospital. He wanted to bring her a gift. Something bought at a shop? No, that seemed "too conventional and lacking in personal warmth," he wrote. He chose, instead, to pick her a bouquet: roses and mums from the yard. Then, though he felt "gathering weeds" a little foolish, "love sent me to the top of the hill to get ground pine"--greens. Back at the house, he searched for their best vase, discounting the known risks: It could get knocked over and broken.

"When I walked into the hospital, I didn't have a paper or cloth to cover my gift. I was unashamed of what I had to give. It was the best I had"--"best" meaning most personal. At the bottom of the page Dad turned his story into a parable: "Someday we can walk unashamed with the trophy of our love into the presence of our heavenly Father."

By EVELYN BENCE, author of the children's book The Saint Who Became Santa Claus (Regina Press). Image: April: Gathering Flowers, Playfair Book of Hours (late 15th century). Photo: Victoria and Albert Museum, London/Art Resource.