Between Blooms and Brokenness

 

 Spring arrived like a gentle whisper, a sudden burst of life unfolding all around me. Driving through unfamiliar streets in a new country, I watched through the car window as nature dressed herself in colors I had never seen before—petals in shades of coral, lavender, golden yellow, and deep fuchsia. It felt otherworldly. A brushstroke from heaven itself. I was mesmerized, spellbound by the artistry of the blooms, each one painting joy across my heart.

In that moment, I thought: This is what heaven must look like—my version of it, at least. The overwhelming beauty was enough to silence any noise within me. And yet, life, as always, carries contrasts. For just as beauty blossoms, brokenness often lingers nearby.

As our car gently rolled through a neighborhood, I noticed something else—people stumbling on sidewalks, shouting into the wind, laughing at ghosts, or simply slouched against walls with eyes glazed over. Some seemed to dance to invisible tunes, lost in a world I didn’t understand. These scenes, alien to me, painted a stark contrast to the serene blooms.

I was new to this land. And with this unfamiliarity came curiosity, compassion—and confusion. I watched as two extremes coexisted within mere blocks of one another. Nature in full bloom. Humanity in visible pain.

Then, I saw her.

A woman, perhaps in her forties, lay collapsed on the side of the road. Her hair was cropped short, and she wore a brown crocheted sweater—something about it felt handmade, tender, as though once stitched with love. But there she was, lifeless or sleeping, still or sick—perhaps intoxicated, perhaps not. I couldn’t tell.

My breath caught. Before I could form the words, my husband, who was driving, had already passed her by.

“Should we call 911?” he asked.

I didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t home. I didn’t know the protocols, the boundaries. Who do we call? What do we say? Would it even be safe? Would help arrive? These questions spun in my mind, rooted in uncertainty—but not indifference.

What haunted me wasn’t the fact that she was there—but that *no one else seemed to care*. People walked past. Cars drove on. No one paused. Not a single soul checked on her.

Is that what city life is like? Fast, self-contained, numbed to pain that doesn’t wear a familiar face?

But I saw her. I still see her.

That sweater. That stillness. That silence that screamed louder than any siren.

Our car moved on, but my conscience didn’t. It stayed there, kneeling beside her. I found myself whispering prayers—not out of helplessness, but out of a desperate desire to bridge the distance between my heart and her pain.

I prayed that someone would stop. That help would arrive. That if she was sick, she would heal. That if she was high, she would be safe. That if she was lost, she would be found—not just physically, but spiritually, emotionally. That she would know, somehow, that a stranger in a car wished her well.

Her image remains with me. It will, I think, for a long time.

In a city bursting with beauty, her collapse was a reminder that not all pain is hidden. Sometimes, it lies openly in our paths, challenging us to respond, to feel, to act—or at the very least, to remember.

We couldn’t stop that day. Not because we didn’t care—but because we didn’t know how. That’s the burden of being a stranger in a strange land. But that doesn’t make the care less real. Our prayers, silent as they were, were born from love. And I believe love, even from afar, matters.

To the woman in the brown crocheted sweater: I see you. I remember you. And I hope—truly—that someone stopped. That someone helped. That today, you are safe, warm, and well.

Sometimes, the only thing we can do is not look away. And when we can’t extend our hands, we must extend our hearts.

"Even in a land of blossoms, broken souls bloom quietly on concrete corners—pray for them, see them, remember them."-Jassila