For 31 of the 32 years we’ve lived in our house, I’ve planted Marigolds simply because they require little to no attention. I drop them in the ground, water once a week, and that’s the extent of it. Three summers ago, just to spice up my life and shock the neighbors, I switched to a tiny purple flower called Alyssum. They died almost instantly, and back to the tried-and-true Marigolds I ran.
I’d forgotten about the purple flowers until one mysteriously blossomed in last year’s bed of Marigolds. For three years, the soil had been turned and raked; snow had fallen; the ground had frozen; more hardy flowers had been planted on top of it. Yet, deep underground, a fragment of root had survived. Hidden beneath the dirt, a tiny shoot had been developing, working its way to the surface. Preparing to emerge. Equipped to bloom
I’ve known people like that resilient flower - people who have found their way after loss and addiction, forged a path after tragedy and heartbreak. I’ve seen people thrive where it seemed they should crumble and shine where it seemed they should shrink. What do they have? What do they know?
They know the power of deep roots. They know the strength of being anchored to a God who is sturdy, unwavering, and willing to wait. They know the value of remaining in good soil.
There may be days, months, or even years when we feel unsteady against the strong winds. Our branches might be stripped of their leaves, snapping under the weight of the storms. We may appear barren and broken. Still, when even a bit of root remains in fertile soil, there is possibility. There is hope that turmoil can give way to fresh growth
I believed a limited story of the purple flower. I thought it was gone because I could not see it. I hadn’t imagined something was happening below the surface. It seemed too much time had passed, conditions had been too brutal, seasons too harsh. I had not considered the chance of a root - untouched by every effort to destroy it. Silently preparing to flourish.
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