Buttercup: My testimony as a Parable

They called her Buttercup at Sunday School, and for good reason. Her long curly hair was always adorned with flowers she’d gathered from the church yard—mostly daisies and dandelions, but come Easter, she’d weave buttercups into a crown that made her shine like spring sunshine itself. 

Every Sunday was a treasure to Buttercup. She’d sit through Pastor Gary’s sermon, her small legs swinging beneath the pew, but her favorite part was watching Grandma Norma sing in the choir. Her voice carried like angel’s wings through the chapel rafters. After the service, Norma’s daughter Cathy—Buttercup’s own grandmother— would lead the children to Sunday School, where stories of faith came to life. 

The first Bible story that truly captured Buttercup’s heart was David and Goliath. Something about a small shepherd boy facing down a giant spoke to her soul, teaching her that even the littlest among us could accomplish miraculous things with faith. 

And miracles existed in Buttercup’s world. Sometimes, when she shook her head with pure joy, coins would spring from her curls—quarters, dimes, and pennies raining down like metallic blessings. She’d gather them carefully, saving them for special toys that awaited at the Chinese restaurant where Grandma Norma took her after church. There, she’d drop too many sugar cubes into her jasmine tea and feed quarters to the egg machine, each plastic surprise a reward for her belief. 

Then came the Sunday when Grandma Norma’s voice no longer soared in the choir. The church grew quieter, emptier. No more birthday celebrations with lucky Saint Patrick’s day clovers, no more wise words spoken with moonlit grace and Jesus’s love shining in her eyes. 

In her grief, Saint Michael came to Buttercup, assuring her that Grandma Norma had gone to heaven—a place as beautiful as her soul had been on Earth. Now, years later, Buttercup walks through meadows dotted with yellow flowers, and when she finds coins glinting in the grass, she smiles, remembering the little girl who once believed in Sunday miracles. That girl still lives deep inside, keeping faith alive like a buttercup opening toward the sunlight.