It was Mother’s Day 1983. I awoke to a chilly morning in Toronto. My mother was thousands of miles away. I had received an invitation to have lunch with a family from the congregation. In that family, there was a mother; her name was Ann.

I set off for the subway stop. The church was two short subway rides away. It suddenly occurred to me that I should take a gift for my hosts for lunch and, of course, what better gift than a bunch of Mother’s Day flowers? I had seen florist shops open the previous day, but not one of them was open now. It was too late, and I had a train to catch, and a church to get to.

In the distance I could see a flower seller near the entrance to the subway. The seller was a young, unkempt lad, dressed very shabbily. This was slightly unnerving. Could he be trusted to sell genuine stock? In his bucket there was only one bunch left. The flowers on the end of the long stalks certainly weren’t chrysanthemums (which I was hoping for), they looked to be carnations. I couldn’t tell what they were, as the buds were so small. This was my only chance for a purchase.

“How much?” I asked. “Five dollars,” he replied. Five dollars was exactly half of what I contributed each week to the household grocery bill. This was daylight robbery, but I was desperate. “OK,” I said, and handed over the cash. I took the bundle of bud-topped stalks and headed to the train.

We enjoyed a lovely meal, and Ann seemed genuinely impressed that I had thought to bring her flowers. I apologised for their appearance and mumbled something about my lack of foresight that had reduced my options.

The following Sunday, Ann approached to tell me the carnations were now fully opened and how glorious they were. A week later she told me they were still as beautiful and how they brightened every day of her week.

I had cause to celebrate this surprise blessing. My small gift of flowers was surpassed by the surprise beauty of the gift. I was lucky to have found that young flower-selling urchin. I looked out for him the following year to thank him, and apologise for my being a curmudgeon that Sunday morning. Alas, I never saw him again. But I have gone out of my way to be delightful around florists ever since!

Rick Sarre of Adelaide, South Australia