Morning Glory

Early this summer, I was pretty gung ho about gardening. We live on the second story of our apartment complex, so that eliminated the prospect of a super fruitful harvest, but I thought I could most certainly try to keep some potted plants alive on our balcony.

I evenly dispersed pots of spider plants, radiator plants, ivy, basil, and morning glories. I repotted when needed. I bought fertilizer. I looked forward to watering every morning. At one point, perhaps at the height of my plant-based enthusiasm, I started making a list: Things I've Learned about God Through the Plant-Raising Process. 

Point 1 was the importance of being well-watered. God refers to Himself as the fountain of living waters, and if we stray from that source, we will not grow. 

And that was pretty much where my list stopped. Because frankly, not a lot was going on. July hit and the plants were kind of growing, kind of not. Some still green, some turning yellowy-brown with a disappointing crunch. It became a chore to go water in the mornings. Besides, I had picked out morning glories with the hope of brightening up our balcony, and all I was getting was a tangled viney mess. Three months had passed, not a single flower bloomed. 

Fast forward to now. We got back late last night from nearly two full days away -- days spent in the hospital and nights spent in Crawfordsville, grieving together as a family while Mom was hooked up to tubes over an hour away. I stepped outside right before bed to water the withering plants, knowing they had been neglected for days. 

I woke up this morning at 3 AM. It was probably earlier, but that was when I checked the clock. My heart was aching and my mind was racing. After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, I came out to our living room. I spent some time reading, writing, praying, and crying while the sun slowly rose outside my window. For most of my time there, the world outside was dark. 

Around 6:45, the sun had lightened the sky just enough that I could begin to see. I looked out over the balcony and immediately burst into tears. After three months of annoyance at my flowerless efforts, this was what I encountered:

The most merciful gift from our good, good Father. One isolated morning glory, right in the middle of my makeshift garden. I know without a doubt that it was not there last night. It emerged in my darkest hour, when so much hope seemed lost, and it is bright, beautiful, radiant. It is full of hope. I can't stop looking at it. As I sobbed tears of thankful joy, all I could utter to Joe was this: "There's got to be like a trillion metaphors here."

And I think the biggest one is to wait in faith-filled confidence for the glory (get it?!) to come. We can spend our days in agony over the viney mess that is this diagnosis, or we can trust that the end is bright, beautiful, and bursting with life. I am even in awe of the wordplay here: mourning → glory. 

We are mourning and will continue to mourn, that much is certain. But we can also trust with complete hope that "our light and momentary affliction is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory" (2 Cor 4:17). 

Thank you Lord!!!