There once was a boy made of scraps of plastic and foam. He lived hidden beside the trash can, easily kicked and blown around, easily spat on and sneered at, easily ignored and forgotten. Then one day, he found himself near a small patch of flowers, a place where pretty things lived. He knew he didn’t belong there, yet he wanted to be. When he stepped toward it, a whisper of wind carried him the rest of the way.

He thought it was another place where he would be kicked, sneered at, or forgotten. Instead, one of the smallest flowers—a pink poppy—bent toward him. She gave him a petal.

Scrap Boy was confused.

“Beauty and life are fleeting. Everyone should have a chance to enjoy them before they are gone.”

Scrap Boy didn’t understand what she meant. But he loved the bright color of the petal and the way it felt real in his wiry hands. He tucked it into his plastic chest and stayed by the small flower’s side.

She laughed at the sun even when her color began to dim. She danced in the wind as more of her beautiful petals fell. Even in her drooping, she never lost her beauty. She was fading…and he was not.

One night, the small pink poppy took Scrap Boy’s hand.

“Promise me that beauty will keep growing.”

She placed a small black seed in his hand. Then, with her soft, withering leaves, she guided him: opening the earth, laying the small piece of herself in the ground, covering it, sheltering it, and finally watering it. Carrying water was what he had been made to do. He was glad to do it again, to have purpose, to follow beauty’s lead.

Yet the next day, she was gone. The only signs left of her were the place they had buried that small piece of her and the petal in his chest. Still, he followed what they had done together, for that was his purpose now. He sheltered and watered the ground where they had buried her seed. The petal in his chest grew weak, brittle, and brown. Still Scrap Boy worked.

Then a sprout appeared—small and green, not as beautiful as the pink poppy, but just as wondrous. Scrap Boy was reinvigorated. He sheltered the little sprout from storms and watered it on the hottest days. Even as the pretty place grew smaller and more scraps filled the area, Scrap Boy protected the sprout.

So the sprout became a bud, and the bud became a pink poppy. Not like the first one, not like Scrap Boy’s pink poppy, but similar. This one giggled with the sun and swayed in the wind. She was different, but when she saw the withered petal in his chest, she gave him one of her own. He let her petal rest beside the withered one from his poppy.

Yet just like his pink poppy, this one still drooped, still grew weaker, still faded, no matter what Scrap Boy did. So again, she gave him a piece of herself to bury and keep beauty alive. Scrap Boy could only follow her lead… until he was alone again.

Sheltering.

Watering.

Waiting.

Another sprout came up.

Another piece of beauty to protect.

Another petal that would wither in his chest.

Again and again and again, this happened to Scrap Boy. It hurt more each time, but he couldn’t stop. The beauty around him was growing smaller and smaller. The world was filling up with scraps and trash like him, things that did not seem beautiful, living, or fleeting like her—his pink poppy.

And maybe, just maybe, if he kept going, if he kept doing what he was made to do, if he kept beauty growing… he would be with her again.

Maybe scraps could be beautiful things too…

“For all things are for your sakes, that grace, having spread through the many, may cause thanksgiving to abound to the glory of God.”- ‭‭II Corinthians‬ ‭4‬:‭15‬ ‭NKJV