Plants amaze me. The fact that it all looks so, so dead, and then suddenly bursts forth into this miraculous display of life — it baffles my mind every single spring.
Of course, we had to wait an unusually long time for that bursting this year. My daffodils? Yeah. They spent weeks as courageous new leaves, with no sign at all that they would ever actually be flowers. But this week, we’ve made progress, and this was my kitchen table today:
There are so many beautiful varieties that are popping open: golden yellows and barely creams, big and small, orange trumpets, peach trumpets, red-rimmed trumpets — all so lovely.
Then there are all of the other miracles — hastas that I thought I’d (somehow!) lost have all popped up. The forsythia volunteer that I stuck in the ground actually bloomed. And the bee balm that I’d given up hope for last summer is not only back, but is thriving. Hollyhock, columbine, bleeding heart, day lilies, forget-me-not, myrtle, gloriosa daisies, cone flowers — they all survived!
And thanks to all of the years of gardening next to my mom, who sees it all with a spiritual lens, I can’t look at that amazing return of life without faith for seemingly-dead situations rising up in my own heart. Somehow, those budding plants are more than just the promise of a lovely summer garden: they’re a tangible reminder that life is God’s business. It’s what He does. Winter — even the longest, harshest, toughest winter the North Country can muster — can’t stop Him from bringing forth life.