Seedlings

“The cross is gone.”

“It’s there. Look closely.”

Chase squatted in front of our verdant Easter resurrection garden, his fingers searching and eyes expectant for nothing but flower. Our strong-willed younger son enjoys being right as much as he enjoys a tickling match with his brother and dad.

“Oh…yup, it’s there. Told you.”

“What!” I squawked like a parrot from its high perch, my face breaking into a grin matching his mischievous one. 

“It grew really fast.”

Had it? We created the pot-base garden the last week of March, nearly two months prior, planting seeds just below the surface of dark and moist dirt. Jesus’ tomb was a tiny flower-pot framed by a large rock on one side and laying atop a bed of pebbles, and the three crosses were sticks collected in our yard and glued together.

It wasn’t much to look at, but we began spotting minute dots of growth a couple of days later. Bright green spots of hope broke through the dirt womb, living seeds bursting with new life.

We headed inside, my mind on Chase’s Kindergarten graduation the next morning. Where had the past 9 months gone? The days had raced each other like Indy cars, speeding into weeks and months, and finally seasons with no red light in sight.

Seasons of laughter and joy and tears and frustration, life lessons that pain and pull and push us onto our knees before the One who set our lives into motion.  

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones;

A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to gain, and a time to lose;

A time to keep, and a time to throw away;

A time to tear, and a time to sew;

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate;

A time of war, and a time of peace. ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Parents warily watch the clock hands move, turning forward and pressing moment into memory. We dread today’s relentless passage into tomorrow. Chubby cheeks turn into maturing markers of emotion and mirrors of truth, and we notice small hands fill too well the gaps in our time-lined palms.

A few days later, Chase smooths out the waves of a frown across my forehead, his soft fingers brushing across my soul. We’re in a difficult season now, one testing and trying us as parents. Trevor and I often fall outside ourselves as we teach and explain and love and discipline these unique buds of life that are growing, bursting through our womb of determined protection.

But…always…God’s mercy is in the heavens, and His faithfulness reaches to the clouds. Today He lovingly reminded me that our seedlings aren’t meant to be hoarded under shaking, cupped hands, blocking their growth for safety’s sake. They’re His seedlings, prepared specifically to grow in His perfect timing  – up through His hands – even as they let go of mine.

Trust me. So I hand Him the watering can, yet again, stepping out of the sunlight’s sometimes scorching rays, squinting as the light hits its target – my seedlings. 

Two precious seedlings.

And He patiently points. Look. The cross. It’s there among the green seedlings, standing firm, unfailing. Jesus is the same today, tomorrow, and forever. A promise from God’s word, written across my heart from my own journey of seed to bloom. 

And I remember, we’re not doing this alone, this difficult and wonderful and painful process of raising up seedlings for His glory. Jesus belongs at the heart of our seedlings as they expand and reach and grow, as their Savior, Protector, Guide, Friend.. Jesus.

But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear Him, and His righteousness to children’s children. ~ Psalm 103:17

Whirling Lessons

As shooting stars of light crisscrossed the dewy grass, the little bloom stretched out. A Cardinal’s jubilant cry echoed across the yard.

“This is the day the Lord has made; let’s rejoice and be glad in it,” he chirped.

Morning was the perfect time to reach upward, and the small bloom did so with a flowery flourish.

“Get ready. Here comes the light!”

 “Move over. I want it too!”

All around the Whirling Butterfly plant, shafts of golden warmth ignited the eager stems with the promise of a new day. The little flower joined with the other blooms in lofting off the morning breeze. 

They whirled toward the sunlight.

“Wait!” The excited murmur cut off. “Not yet. Patience, young blooms.”

The entirety of the thick swath of green stems and white and pink-tipped flowers turned toward the soft voice of the elderly flower. She wore her age and wisdom with the deep pink staining her petals.

“In order to be lifted up, first you must be filled.”

The legend was that the elder flower burst into bloom the evening of the bright, exploding colorful lights at mid-summer’s peak. The young blooms were the last crop of summer, and they were eager to blossom fully and enjoy the waning warmth before fall’s official arrival.

Now, with the children gone again during the day and night temperatures dipping lower, the youngest blooms hoped to glean from her wisdom.

“You must wait for the dew to soak in,” the wise old flower said, her mauve petals held together. “You are too dry. The sun will scorch your stem and petals just yet. We whirl best when we are water-filled.”

The young flower listened intently. Wait for the dew to soak in, then whirl.

“But the sun gives us the strength to whirl and grow.” A tiny bud spoke up. 

“The sun will give you strength, true, but you must soak in the moisture from last night’s rain and this morning’s dew first. Sunlight and water together allow us to whirl for our Maker.”

Cherry petals danced in the light breeze as she opened them, looking at the many blooms around her.

“Do you want to show the glory of our Maker?”

An exultant, “YES!” rose up, drowning out the Cardinal’s chirp.

“Wonderful! We will direct people to His glory until the ground is frozen and the gray of winter takes over. But the only way you will bloom and whirl now is with His water in you. Before you reach for the sun, drink.”

The young flower carefully closed its petals as it drew up moisture from the roots. It was a tedious process, and he was learning to be careful to gulp slowly so all the other stems had enough water.

The wise old flower turned and spoke directly to him. 

“You are kind to think of others.”

The young flower preened its petals at the praise.

“Many young blossoms reach up too early. They don’t realize the sunlight is too bright for them by themselves. They must have living water in their stem and petals to whirl. It is as our Maker intended.”

The young bloom nodded in acknowledgement, but then a question cross his mind.

“What about when it doesn’t rain?”

“There are times you will be dry. You must learn to reach down deep for moisture, and learn to drink of the dew of night. But rain, it always comes. Sometimes, we must be patient and trust.”

“But what if the clouds do not provide rain for many, many days?”

“Then we wait and trust. You will be dry and uncomfortable, but you will not die. Moisture always comes, whether from the clouds or the green hose or from the dew. You will learn this. Our Maker always provides.”

The narrow rays of sunshine grew wider and wider until scalding sunlight overcame shadows lingering from night. The young flower finished drinking and began stretching slowly, whirling upward. Its dark green stem was flowing with life-giving water.

In the fullness of the late summer morning, the young flower reached toward the golden sun and burst open in vibrant bloom, stem and petals whirling for the glory of its Maker.