When They Can't Name the Wildflowers
The trail we’ve been walking on every morning is lined with wildflowers. Yellow, orange, purple, white—tiny bursts of joy pushing up from the green. I felt that familiar tug, the one that has been with me my whole life: Oh! A wildflower!
I know them. All of them. There isn’t a speck of color on these plains that I haven’t noticed and gravitated towards. My kids have always been alongside me—picking, pressing, journaling, identifying. It’s been part of our rhythm to marvel at God’s creation.
“Quick!” I called out to my olders, their long legs now striding ahead of me. “Name this wildflower!” I pointed to the bright bloom—a Balkan toadflax—sure they’d remember.
But they didn’t.
They looked at me, smiling but silent. The names didn’t come—for any of them that I stopped at. Just the morning breeze, the birdsong, and the white noise of nearby traffic in my ears as a twinge of disappointment crept in.
And with it came the thoughts: Had all those nature walks been in vain? What happened to all those afternoons with field guides in hand, our nature journals out, bent over blossoms and leaves? Did any of that sink in?
I tried to brush those thoughts aside, but they lingered. We’ve spent nearly two decades noticing, naming, sketching, and marveling at wildflowers together. How could they not remember?
Of course, I know this is normal. Names are easy to forget. Even I have to pause sometimes, searching for a name I used to know without thinking. But those intrusive thoughts—they aren’t really about wildflower names. They’re about my heart’s hope as a mother: that all the time, all the effort, all the beauty I’ve tried to offer would take root, would last.
I wanted evidence. I wanted to see fruit. I wanted, in that moment, to feel like the seeds I’ve sown over the years had grown into something visible and sure. There comes a time, I’m afraid, where our children’s education reveals things about our hearts that we must unpack and deal with.
As I’ve been thinking about this over the last couple of weeks, I am seeing more clearly. The wildflower names may not be on the tips of their tongues, but what has lasted?
The comfort they feel outdoors. The way it helps all of us to cope with stress.
The way they still stop to notice a flash of color, a bright bloom, a bird’s call.
The shared history of time spent together in wonder, without rush or agenda.
The formation of hearts attuned to creation’s beauty.
The conversations we have as we’re walking. Instead of discussing the names of the wildflowers, we’re talking about the responsibility that comes with a driver’s license or the conversations the oldest is having with her boyfriend over the couple’s devotional I bought them.
The wildflowers aren’t new—but these children are. Cue Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide.” They are older. They, too, are blooming. The point of blooming isn’t be to known by name, but to be what we are created to be—a small, radiant piece of God’s glory.
It wasn’t about the names, not really. It never was. It was about forming habits of attention, of reverence, of delight—together. And those? Those habits have sunk deep, even if I can’t always see them.
Someday, your children may not remember the name of that tree or flower, the one you could identify at a passing glance, the one you have such fond memories of nature journaling with them around the table. We can shift our perspective. This is a new beginning. An invitation to wonder afresh, to learn together again, to let go of perfection and embrace the lifelong journey of noticing. Or maybe we simply share a fond memory with our children as we pass wildflowers on the trail, letting go of what used to be.
And we can remember: Every walk mattered. Every sketch mattered. Every time we paused to see and name and marvel, it all mattered. The wildflowers have shaped us, whether or not we remember their names.
Mariah Kochis 2025