Even Here, There Will Be New Life
So, about that time I burst into tears over a plant...
I have an embarrassing confession to make. Today I discovered that I am, apparently, someone who will cry over a potted plant.
Last summer, I bought a plant. That’s a very normal sentence… unless you know me, and then it becomes a very strange sentence. Grocery store bouquets thrive in my apartment, but I’ve never had a green thumb for a garden—or even a single houseplant. There were a few on sale right next to the sunflowers and carnations though, and I decided to try my hand once again. It’ll probably end up like the last one, I told myself as I walked through the checkout line, but I’ll try my very best. Even if it only makes it for a month, I reasoned, it’s worth the cost to have a little more life in an empty, quiet space.
Days turned into weeks that became months, and in mid-October, I decided it was time to give the still-alive plant a name. For no reason other than absolute delight, I quickly landed on Shelly.
Have you ever heard of a plant named Shelly? No? Exactly.
Oh, it’s ridiculous. I know this. But every time I walk into the living room and say “Good morning, Shelly” or “Hi, Shelly, you’re looking great. Time for some water” there’s an instant increase in joy—and so Shelly it is.
Shelly has seen some things, though. She has leaves that are split in half and one that is cut straight through, like someone took a pair of scissors to the already-broken places. A couple of the leaves are bruised and a few have holes, perhaps the sign of pests that enjoyed a summer snack. I only noticed one or two broken leaves while in the store, but Saturday by Saturday I gently pulled the leaves back, discovered another bruise or cut, slowly poured water onto the soil, and wondered if the not-perfect places led to being placed in a weekday sale.
Time has ticked on and months have passed since the impromptu grocery store purchase. Tree leaves have burned bright and fallen down, only to be crunched beneath boots or blanketed by snow. Seasons have shifted outside the window, but Shelly seemed to be frozen in time. I don’t know when it happened, but eventually I stopped anticipating any change—positive or negative. She’s still here, bruised leaves and all, and considering my previous history of keeping plants alive, that was more than enough for me.
That is, until I burst into very real tears and immediately dropped onto the floor today, stunned by the unexpected sight of four brand-new baby leaves.
Suddenly, after all this time, new life is poking through.
There are tiny pistachio green shoots growing next to bruised and broken olive green leaves, and side by side they tell a story of struggle and survival that brought me to my knees.
There are several things in my life that have died over the last few years, and I’m sure you’d say the same. People, relationships, dreams, jobs, homes, health… the list can go on and on. We are a people who have walked through significant loss, both collectively and individually. It’s not only tempting to think “this is how it’ll always be”… it’s understandable.
I’m stretching the metaphor, but like Shelly, we’ve seen some things.
But then there she is on a winter morning, a visual several months in the making, serving as a gentle reminder from the God who is also a Gardener:
Even in the places where we feel broken and bruised, even when we feel cut open and like something is missing where it shouldn’t be, there is still room for new life. In those very places, hope can grow again.
Today, it feels like a glimpse of Isaiah 43. The promise of “See, I am doing a new thing!” in verse 18 is a comfort and a relief, but to me, the deeper hope is found in the stunning honesty of verse 19.
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”
God doesn’t wipe out the wilderness or the wasteland. Instead, He promises to wipe away all our tears (Revelation 21:4) and fill the barren places with new life.
It’s not just good; it’s the impossible come true.
Hope doesn’t erase what was or minimize what happened. The fingerprints of loss might linger long, and the reality of a new normal may carry over from one season to the next for the rest of our days. But it’s there, like a promise slowly poking up through the soil, an unhurried whisper inviting us to lean in and take another look, a declaration buried deep and forever holding true: time takes time, but new life is always on the way.
The video below shows some of the bruises/torn leaves. Girl has seen some things… but she’s still here:
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I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for inviting me into your inbox, thank you for sharing so generously, and thank you for being people who not only kindly hold the tension of both grief and goodness, beauty and bruised and broken places, new life and painful loss and all of it mixed together… but hold it with a smile, with tears in your eyes, with both a “me too” and a “let’s walk together.” Here’s to looking for wildflowers in the wilderness as Hope walks us Home. Here’s to a grocery store plant that brought a much-needed reminder. Here’s to small glimpses of a promise that will hold.
Great article. Thank you ! 😊
Kaitlyn this was so special. It's one of those seasons (I need to read your book again!) and I've kind of given up hope for it to ever change. Thank you for writing about Shelly.