"Only in Florida can you find flowers in January," I muttered, stopping at a flower-laden bush outside the library on the campus of Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University. Maybe my statement was totally false, but where I'm from, flowers and January are diametrically opposed occurances. You just don't see flowers in January in the nation's capital. (Sometimes, you don't see flowers.)

Still, that didn't stop me from picking one.

I inhaled the fragile scent of the pink blossom that I had cruelly plucked in the prime of its short life. It was barely noticable. Those with weaker noses would say it didn't smell at all. But it was beautiful. Smiling at the quirks of weather I had to endure in Tallahassee, Florida, I clutched my prize and ambled on towards my next class.

That's when I saw Sharon.

"Only in Florida can you find flowers in January," I said to her, smiling, while I indicaated my prize. She smiled shyly as we made small talk. "I can just see you writing a poem about that flower, and reading it in front of a group of people," she said to me, embarassing me totally while filling me with a dangerous pride. After a little more small talk, she disappeared to go to class, and left me to amble on, feeling blessed by our brief encounter. Her words stuck in my mind, as did her very presence.

Flowers in January. And Sharon's sweet spirit.

I thought about Sharon. And I thought about those God-like qualities of her spirit that I so admired. Her meekness. Her humbleness. She never screamed, but when she spoke in her quiet way, you felt honored. She may have sometimes been overlooked, but she was never overshadowed. Her still, quiet voice brought to mind those peaceful times when Mommy used to tuck me in at night, times when there was a lull between the storms of life and all was right with the world. Times of serenity. Times of peace.

I looked at the flower in my hand, and I thought of Sharon. I thought of Sharon, and compared her to myself.

I try so hard to be noticed. I scream and yell and holler, and do everything short of make a scene. I wave my arms before humanity, and get passed by. I try to prove myself with every single thing I say, do, and even write, wishing desperately that the feeling of neglect will go away.

I want to be seen. I need to be accepted. I'd do almost anything to get there. If Sharon was the sweet, soft blossom overcoming all odds, then I was the vibrant bloom that gave you a headache from the overwhelming fragrance. And the result would be the same. The soft blossom eventually gets picked. The vibrant one is picked quickly, and then is discarded, if it doesn't die from the exertion of producing so much scent..

I thought of Sharon as I looked at that January blossom. And I began to write.

Thank you, Sharon, for the message you have taught me. I will share it with you. It's not deep. It's very simple. And it's only one line long.

The proud shall be abased, and the humble shall be exalted.

Sometimes, when we are so full of ourselves, we miss the still, small voice of God whispering to us. But, still, he whispers. Overlooked, but never overshadowed. And finally, we will discard the flamboyant blossom of our own pride for the sweet fragrance of a January flower.

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