I have never had much of a green thumb. I guess I have never really needed one but I have always found the art of cultivating the soil to be quite fascinating. To have the knowledge of how it is that one particular species of plant life grows and all that it requires to reach its full potential of bloom—would not only be enjoyable but also beneficial for the one that possess the skill. But maybe it’s more than that. What if an invaluable secret laid in the understanding of how it is one thing grows exactly where it is, or should be, planted.
But that’s just it. The tree, shrub, flower, herb—has no ability to plant itself or even to know or understand what it is the planter is doing. All it can do is its part… to establish its roots and grow, right where it’s at, wherever that might be. No control over climate. Soil. Environmental factors. Just to wait, sink in its roots, and grow.
Easier said than done.
What I find to be so intriguing is the transplantation process. Depending on the purpose or need of the plant and the aim of the planter, plants are able to be and are often, relocated. With proper care and consideration, the plant can be uprooted, transported to its next destination, and replanted. Of course, the plant has no jurisdiction in this decision. It can, however, determine the manner in which it will respond to this new environment and rattling, ground-breaking experience.
You see, the planter would never uproot it only to leave it to die.
He understands the soil, the climate, the whole shebang. He knows the design of the plant, the limits and strengths. He is familiar with the needs, prospective downfalls, and maximum potential of that which he has moved. The true, well-learned planter would not transplant if he knew the desired location was not appropriate or in the best interest of the plant. But even plants that are thriving are, at times, caught up in this transplant process. This is a curious thing to me.
Maybe it’s because I don’t have the mind, understanding, or perspective of that of a planter.
In J.R.R. Tolkien’s, The Lord of the Rings, Gandalf the Gray comforts the young Frodo as he sets out to embark on his journey to Mount Doom with these words, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
We all come with an expiration date. It is innately weaved into our very DNA. But sometimes expiration doesn’t mean death per say. It can refer to the ending of a season, of a chapter, of a position in this life. No one calls the shots. It’s a funny thing because we think we do… until we’re uprooted or lose something we can’t replace. We dig our roots down deep and grow but not only do we grow, we become comfortable. The soil becomes our home, our security, and at times… our identity.
Identity is a painful thing to uproot.
Purpose, however, is universal when the plant is at rest in the hands of the planter… wherever it may end up in the ground.
The planter is not naïve to the reality that complications may arise when uprooting the plant from its original soil. The plant might go into shock while being unaware of why its roots can no longer grasp the soil. At least, not for the time being. The plant may die before transplanting because of hope seemingly lost. The planter knows he is taking a risk but does so because he has a purpose and vision in mind.
A good purpose.
Most often it feels like the exact opposite. It feels wrong, it stings, and sometimes, it even seems evil. It [plant] didn’t ask to be relocated and frankly, would be quite content to remain right where it’s at. In fact, now that it has been forced to budge, it recognizes that moving will be more painful than it ever imagined it would be. The soil has hardened around each root making each individual tear even more excruciating than the first.
Are we not the same?
The winds of change blow, a storm is on the horizon. The heart can almost sense that something monumental is about to occur. The roots of the soul are ripped from the ground as all we have known disappears in the distance. The landscape shifts as we slowly approach the ground. Our new home. We struggle. We thirst for our old, familiar soil… for the way we could prepare for the habitual, life-giving rainfall. The last thing we want to do is settle down. But what other choice do we have? We pull ourselves up and muster all the strength that remains within to drive ourselves down deep. We get acclimated to the area and go about our days as we always have.
But for some reason, that doesn’t cut it. We somehow know we were made for more than just getting by.
Our routine, our home, our surroundings, our “climate” have all faded into different shades of earthy tones. We almost don’t know what to do with it. Before we know it, we start to shrivel… almost to the point of death. We literally suffocate ourselves as we refuse to allow the new soil to nourish our bones.
We shut ourselves off from the rain, the grace—that could be ours.
We become dry, cracked, and useless. Sooner or later, the surrounding soil will not even sustain life. We have forgotten what it feels like to taste the joy of fresh rain, the excitement of new scenery, the thrill of adventure.
We have forgotten what it means to truly bloom.
As I have been reading Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts I have continued to be broadsided with tough, powerful truth. [I would recommend the book to anyone and everyone.] Today’s road trip called for some reading and I was hit hard with this:
I know there is poor and hideous suffering and I’ve seen the hungry and the guns that go to war. I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks…Why would the world need more anger, more outrage? How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us? Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn’t rescue the suffering. The converse does. The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest Light to all the world.
When we lay the soil of our hard lives open to the rain of grace and let joy penetrate our cracked and dry places, let joy soak into our broken skin and deep crevices, life grows. How can this not be the best thing for the world? For us? The clouds open when we mouth thanks.
The ability, rather—the gift—of blooming is not determined by our lack of preference in location. However, we often allow it to cause us to be jaded and unwilling to try. I have replayed this challenge in my mind countless times during the past few months. I have been so convicted as I have realized more and more that although I have taken root in a new place, rolled with the punches, and wanted to bloom… I have not. At least not as fully as I could. I have allowed my soil to become parched and have slowly, from the inside out, begun to close myself off to the blessings of fresh soil and new rains. My expectations, my longings of what I thought would be, what should be my reality, have caused me to begin to whither.
But my Planter knows me better than I have [ever] known myself… and He saw fit to bring me to this new piece of land. And He prepared the soil before I even arrived.
What would it look like if I lived as though I truly believed that were true? That my Planter has had my good and ultimately, His glory, in mind all along?
This is just another day in the life… Learning to bloom where I am [planted].
