The Power of Thorns: A Story of Healing and Thanksgiving

Adanna felt as low as her gele after a restless, tear-stained night. As wind whipped the red dust of Aso Market across her face, she stepped into Mama Ife’s humble flower stall, tucked between shouting traders and vibrant wares.

Not long ago, her life had flowed like a calm river in planting season; joyful, easy, full of warmth. But that was before the accident. Four months into her second pregnancy, an okada collision shattered her world.

This week, she should have been naming her baby boy. Instead, she was naming her pain.

To make things worse, her husband had just received a possible transfer to Sokoto. Her sister Chioma, usually the first to show up at family events, had called the night before to say she wouldn’t be visiting. And then, Ngozi, her well-meaning friend, had said the worst thing of all:

“God sometimes allows pain so we can help others through theirs.”

Adanna had nearly thrown her phone. She has no idea what I’m feeling, she muttered through clenched teeth.

She had come to Mama Ife’s flower stall searching for something, anything, to fill the void. A wreath of brightness. A sign from the heavens. A whisper of hope. But all she could think was: Thanksgiving? Thankful for what?

For the reckless driver who walked away unharmed?
For an airbag that saved her, but not her child?

A Flower Shop with a Secret

“Welcome, my daughter,” Mama Ife greeted, her head wrapped in a radiant rainbow of Ankara. “What can I prepare for you?”

Adanna cleared her throat. “I… I need an arrangement. For Thanksgiving Sunday.”

“Beautiful but ordinary?” asked Mama Ife. “Or something bold; something that dares gratitude to bloom from pain?”

Adanna blinked. “What?”

“I call it the Thanksgiving Special,” said the elder with a soft smile. “You see, flowers tell stories. What kind of story are you living this season?”

Adanna hesitated. “Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. That’s my story.”

“I see,” Mama Ife said gently. “I have just the thing.”

The Gift of Thorns

Just then, the curtain of wooden beads behind the counter rattled. A woman stepped in and greeted Mama Ife warmly.

“I’ll fetch your order, Tolu,” the florist said, slipping into the back room.

Moments later, she returned holding a bundle wrapped in palm fronds and tied with raffia. Long green stems poked from the top—no petals, no blossoms.

Adanna frowned. “What kind of bouquet is that?”

Tolu smiled knowingly. “It’s my fourth year getting the Thanksgiving Thorns. I still feel their weight, right here,” she said, pressing her chest.

“You paid for that?” Adanna asked in disbelief.

Tolu nodded. “Three years ago, I had nothing. My father died suddenly. My business collapsed. My son got tangled in addiction. I was facing a surgical procedure I didn’t think I’d survive.”

She touched the thorns like old friends. “But these… these reminded me that suffering doesn’t cancel gratitude. It refines it.”

Broken People, Blooming Hearts

Mama Ife turned to Adanna. “She came here broken, like you. And I was grieving too. I lost my daughter, Ife, during childbirth. My husband passed. I had no children left, no coin to travel, and no family near. But the Spirit taught me to be thankful… even for thorns.”

Adanna swallowed hard. “But… why?”

The elder looked into her eyes. “Because the thorns made God’s comfort real. I used to thank Him only for the sunshine, never once for the rain.”

Silence fell over the little stall. The scent of herbs, dried petals, and warm earth hung in the air. Adanna’s heart stirred. Ngozi’s words, once sharp and unwelcome, returned, now gentle and true.

“I guess the truth is… I don’t want comfort,” Adanna whispered. “I’m angry. I’ve lost a child.”

At that moment, a cheerful man burst through the curtain. “Mama Ife! My wife sent me for our usual: twelve long-stemmed thorns!”

Adanna stared, stunned, as Mama Ife handed him the same strange bundle.

“You too?” she asked softly.

He smiled. “Four years ago, our marriage was done. But we fought, with God’s help. Each thorn represents a problem we overcame. Together.”

Choosing Gratitude in Grief

Adanna stood frozen. The ache in her chest shifted. Her clenched fists relaxed.

“I don’t know if I can be thankful for the thorns in my life,” she whispered.

Mama Ife reached for her hand. “Child, roses without thorns are weak. But thorns? They teach us to treasure joy. Even Christ wore a crown of them. Don’t resent the thorns.”

Tears welled in Adanna’s eyes. For the first time in months, she let herself cry.

“I’ll take the twelve long-stemmed thorns, please,” she said softly.

“I was hoping you would,” Mama Ife replied, tying the stems in indigo cloth and tucking in a small handwritten card.

A Prayer Among Thorns

The card read:

Dear God,
I have thanked You a thousand times for my roses,
But never once for my thorns.
Teach me to see Your hand in pain,
To feel Your nearness in sorrow.
Let me find joy, not only in blooming,
But in the thorns that lead me home.

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