I turned the knob to "Ignite" and heard the familiar clicking sound of the backyard grill, but no flame burst as a result of my efforts. It was five o' clock, and we had planned our family evening around a barbecue and a sunset. No propane - no sunset dinner.

I heaved the barren barrel into the back of our truck, pulled out of the driveway, and followed my husband's directions to the nearest store that sold propane. Our house rested on the outskirts of a booming city, southeast of Phoenix, and my errands always directed me north, headlong into commercialized bustle. These directions, however, pointed me on a course in the opposite direction.

I had mistakenly believed that south of our neighborhood haven lay only miles of farmland and if you drove far enough, the San Tan Mountains. I drove curiously as I passed orange tree orchards, plots of land-sprouting single-wide trailers, some horse ranches, and finally a taco stand.

In close proximity, I spotted a sign that read "Liquor, Propane, Lottery." The liquor and the lottery I had no use for, but their center compatriot held our hopeful dinner in its hands. Slowly, I pulled into a parking lot that was littered with cigarette butts, aluminum cans, and newspapers. I ambled my vehicle in a wave-like motion to avoid the gaping potholes that stood ready to swallow my tires.

Paint from the walls of the convenient store peeled off in long, finger-like strips that bent towards the earth and dangled dejectedly above the concrete. The advertisement signs hung crookedly next to dirt-spackled windowpanes. The smell of cigarette smoke and chili peppers filled my nostrils. Two other trucks were in line for propane, and both male occupants seemed to have appreciated all the services this little store offered. I waited, feeling strangely out of place only ten minutes from my home.

Finally, a large man with bronzed skin and a long black ponytail, which hung in one lengthy curl down the center of his back, seized my empty propane vessel and hooked it up to the nozzle. I waited, turned my head to the west, and it was then that I saw them.

Eyes opened wide, I stared in disbelief. In front of a bright yellow marquee with crumbling black letters was a small circular opening in the concrete that surrounded the base of the sign. Inside the space grew illustrious vines of sweet peas that flowed over the boundaries of their cement prison. It had been fifteen years since I had seen this particular flower.

I immediately walked the twenty feet it took to reach them, grabbed the stem of one flower, broke the stalk, and lifted the petals to my nose. A delicious fragrance enlivened my senses and ignited the pathways of my memory.

Suddenly, I was eleven, wearing blue shorts and a white T-shirt. My hair dangled down the middle of my back in long brown braids, my skin tanned, and my nose dotted with freckles. In front of me, a five-feet-wide plot of land boasted a harvest of budding sweet peas. My father and I had planted them a few weeks earlier on a glowing Saturday morning. He always said that this flower reminded him of me, and he even called me "sweet pea" on occasion.

I remembered that I'd kneel in the soft, brown dirt of our plot, my hands turning the soil over and over, examining for weeds. I'd grasp a weed with my fingers, clear as much dirt as possible around the root, pull it, and then place it into a pile on the grass. Afterwards, I'd pick up the accumulated discards and carry them to the garbage bins on the side of the house.

Next I'd unravel our long green hose and drag it to the flower bed, knocking over whatever flower pots lie in my path. (I was too young to be bothered with nonessentials.) A gentle spray of water would cascade from the spout, and I'd press my finger in the middle of the stream to widen its flow.

As I would water each stalk, I'd stare at the green stems that reached upward and marvel at how the tendrils knew to wrap their delicate fingers around the slender iron fence. They were bracing the entire plant for an upward climb.

In a matter of days, small buds would open, and I'd wait with anticipation to see the colors that would emerge: white, pink, red, and deep purple - these were my favorite. They were a rare sight in a young gardener's world. How did God make flowers the color of a plum?

On the occasional Saturday morning, my father would come outside with me to look at the flowers we had planted together, help pull the weeds and water our tiny crop. Besides stems and petals, in that small plot of land grew a sense of ownership, and a gentle connection with my father. When my parents divorced the following year and we moved from that house, I didn't stop missing the sweet peas for years.

Suddenly, the clerk interrupted my reverie with a shout, "Ma'am, your propane is ready! Five gallons."

I looked up, said "Thank you," and resisted the impulse to wrap both of my arms around the entire lot of stems and heave my body backwards, pulling. Instead, I tucked the flower I held in the palm of my hand and folded my fingers around it. My father had been dead now for almost two years and that tiny object, to me, was so much more than just a flower. I headed back to the store, paid for the propane and set off for home.

As I drove, I thought of my father's drug overdose and subsequent death. The process of healing had come full circle. The passage of time had softened some of my memories and I was grateful to have remembered this one.

Now that I have finally healed, I see a renewed purpose in my life. I am here to tend the garden that the generation before me has planted, extract the weeds of the past, and reap for myself and those to follow a bountiful harvest of truth and freedom. Like a young but purposeful climber, I wrap the tendrils of my faith around strong principles and prepare myself to continue the upward venture of my progenitors.

The ability for vegetation to grow naturally is often miraculous. Despite lack of moisture, driving winds, or the cumbersome weight of soil upon it, a seed will send forth a sprout of life that instinctively knows to reach upward. Somehow, human beings possess this same innate will to live, because despite the exponential weight of life, people seem to grow and flourish beyond the burdens they carry.

I am reminded of an aunt who has buried a husband, two sons, and cares full-time for a twenty-five-year-old disabled daughter who is fully dependent upon her. My aunt is a strong, service-oriented woman with a cheerful disposition. Her days have known tragedy, but you don't see it in her eyes or hear it in her voice. Right now she is being asked to move from a home she has been living in for twenty years, and she is doing what she has always done - continuing the climb.

During my last trimester of pregnancy with our third son, my husband, David, was in his last semester of dental school. Caring for the two children we already had, working part-time, and growing another human being felt, at times, more than I could possibly handle. One evening as I sat on the floor folding laundry, David walked into the room and fell, completely exhausted, onto the couch.

Likewise, I turned to him, and in desperate tears exclaimed, "I cannot do this anymore. I just can't. I am too tired. I don't have anything left."

He looked at me and responded, "We don't have a choice. We have to." Though I was too tired to admit it that moment, I knew he was right. I stood up, left the laundry on the floor, and went to bed. The next morning I rose with the renewed purpose of reaching the worthwhile destinations for which I had set out.

David's statement was precisely the right thing to say to me at the time. (However, I recommend very careful use of it with others.) If he had said, "I know, Sweetheart. If you can't do it anymore, you don't have to," I would have rolled back on the floor, lay supine, and held up the white pair of underwear I was folding as my signal of surrender.

There is a time to nurture ourselves, heal our wounds, or seek an empathetic ear. Then there is a time to stand up, tap into our driving will of survival, and just carry on with the climb. There is always more fight left in us than we realize. After a good cry or a loud scream, we remember the truth we have known before - we can keep going.

In the last few years of my father's life, I witnessed his constant struggle with depression, addiction, and personal loss. When we would speak occasionally on the phone, he would mention a determination to inch forward, no matter how slowly he was going. Until his last day, he kept his word.

He died in the middle of the night, and he was found in the morning, kneeling by his bedside in a praying position. On his desk, there was a to-do list for the next day. One of the items was to convince a neighbor that he needed to stop drinking and another was to go to church.

My life with my father reminded me very much of finding those sweet peas growing amidst the concrete in the middle of a run-down service station. They were surrounded by structural failings, but despite their environment, a beautiful garden of flowers not only bloomed, they flourished. Their very existence stated, "Take what was given to you and make it better."

Our relationship once defeated me, but having followed it through each of its stages and seeing it come full circle to healing, I now recognize its unique beauty. Despite his faults, my father offered me many values I still hold onto. He believed in God. He believed in serving others. He believed that his life had a purpose, and he looked for it everywhere.

Today I do not believe that he failed me as a parent. He just handed me the baton in the third leg of the race. His heat was done, and he would not achieve everything that he set out to on this earth. He transferred into another living soul those core beliefs - God, service, and a life of purpose. Now I am here, baton of values in hand, willing to join the race, to persevere, and to reap a meaningful harvest in behalf of all of us.

"Take what was given to you and make it better" is a simple, but powerful concept. We can wither under the concrete ceilings above us, or we can grow beyond their borders. Maybe our lot in life has been difficult. So what if we didn't get everything that we planned?

We can choose to be people who forgive, who love, who heal, and we can flower despite our surroundings. We possess an inborn will not just to live, but to be free and to live well. Just as it is innate within a flower to send its stalk toward the sun, it is innate within us to reach towards God and our highest selves, and not just survive in this life - but flourish.