a picture worth 1000 words

I challenged myself to write a story inspired by a picture, and here it is. A picture worth 1000 words.

am not a plant person. Let’s just get that out of the way. Nurturing tiny organics until they bloom is not a feat for the faint of heart. And it’s not that I’m lacking in heart. Thanks to surgery, I’ve got a pretty strong one now. Metaphorically, I’d say I’m doing well in that area, too. Metaphor. That’s what this picture is. A metaphor. Let me set the stage.

One day in early fall, my sister brought me a gift. It was a beautiful, potted lily. So pretty. Green leaves, white flowers, yellow staples. Stapes? Stamen? Anyway, it was really nice of her. I almost feel bad for scowling. But, as I mentioned before, I am not a plant person. She should have known that about me, but she is a plant person. And, forgive me for the stereotype, it seems to me that plant people think that everyone else is also a plant person.

Ech, so I put the plant outside for sun or whatever. Of course, it died. I didn’t water it, or check on it, or bring it inside during the cooler nights. Standard stuff for non plant people. Then, my mom died.

This isn’t a sad story, don’t worry. I’ve had some time to work through my grief. But metaphors are funny. My mom was also a plant person. She had tons and tons of plants. Since she lived with me, I inherited all those plants. And like a good daughter, I gave them all to my plant friendly sister. Then winter came, and all the things that come with winter. Turkey and dressing and tinsel and tears. Bare trees surrounded by dead leaves. A dried up lily wasting away in a pot of soil. Cold, gloomy mornings ideal for mourning. I certainly did.

Every once in a while I try, really hard, to be a plant person. It doesn’t last long. It’s mostly an exercise in futility, but also a little bit of a fun project for me and my girls. One year we planted watermelons and lettuce. Some critter got beyond our fenced yard and nibbled on those during the night. I used to judge Mr. MacGregor, but now I understand his pain. Rabbits are not nice people. Well, they aren’t actually people. But if they were, they’d probably be plant people, right?

The spring after my mother passed, I planted spinach, carrots, cucumbers, peas, a whole bunch of herbs, and okra in a raised garden bed. We had several great spinach harvests in the cooler months, and a few edible cucumbers. Not a single carrot. The only herbs that grew were marjoram. I have no idea what to do with marjoram. Why is it called marjoram? It sounds like butter and jam had a baby. And like babies, it smells delicious, but isn’t much help to me in the kitchen.

At this point you may be wondering about that dead metaphor plant. Funny thing happened. I left the lily pot in the space below the garden beds. Maybe if you’re a plant person you know this, but dead plants aren’t always dead. Sometimes they’re just sleeping. Not like gerbils and goldfish, either. Like, there’s real resurrection power there. Provision from the Father (the garden beds) descended upon the pot, baptizing it in the Holy Spirit (runoff water) as it bathed in the warmth of the Son (the literal sun). Is that too much? Okay, sorry.

To be honest, I barely watered my garden. I’m not a lazy person, but I am a lazy gardener. I tend to let nature do most of the work. So, I had low expectations for my produce and zero expectations for that pot of basically dirt. But after a few weeks of spring sun, I noticed something. The pot of soil had something sticking out at the middle. Something not brown and dead, but very much alive looking. Something green.

Green. The color of life. The color of hope. The color I needed to see that spring after a hard winter full of tears and death. This not-a-plant-person witnessed a miracle, not birthed out of my own toil and labor, but out of something much more reliable. I was really sad, and a part of me wondered if I would ever be able to pull myself out of that sadness. But this tenacious little plant helped me heal in a profound way. It was a reminder to me that healing isn’t all up to me. I don’t have to force it. I don’t have to conjure it. I’m already prewired to live and thrive, just like that little lily plant. Though I felt dried up that season, it was only for a season.

After that, I got really excited about the lily plant. I went out of my way to water it as spring eased into summer. I took pictures as it bloomed and came into its own. I was really amazed at the turnaround. Amazed and inspired. If that poor, dead plant could bloom so beautifully, why couldn’t I? Are there more winters ahead? Sure. And that’s okay.

I’d like to say that I’ve become a better gardener because of that plant, but that would be a lie. I am still not a plant person. And I’m pretty sure the lily is dried up in the yard somewhere. Pretty sure. But that’s not the point, is it? We have highs and lows. Seasons of productivity, and seasons of rest. Times when we cry, and times when we rejoice. I’ve learned to appreciate all of it, just a little bit more. Maybe plant people love plants so much because they’re inspired by the miracle of growth. Or maybe they’re nuts. It’s a coin toss.

I am grateful for the lesson either way. I still get sad, but I know it’s not forever. It’s just another season in a cycle of seasons. So, thank you lily plant. Thank you, sis. Thank you God for the miracle of life.