When the flowers bloom.

When the flowers bloom.

“:: When the flowers bloom, you can write again.::”

When I plant a garden I always have high hopes of fresh salads and delicious BLT sandwiches. An array of vibrant colors and shapes sprouting from the ground I tilled and nurtured. Usually what I fail to realize is that with planting comes responsibility to weed out what’s not good for my plants. What’s harmful and toxic.

Whenever something new is planted in your heart , there will always be tending of that new plant. As it grows and you have visions of serving it to the people you love, and enjoying it yourself , this comes with a great responsibility.

Just as we are caretakers of our literal gardens, we are also responsible for the gardens of our hearts. We are solely responsible for weeding out hurts and disappointments and anger before they get to the root of our healthy plants.


He’s been tilling up my soil for months, but I’m in a season of weeding. It’s sweaty and hot out there. I’ve had to go in for water and an occasional cold brew. I’m tired of pulling out nasty green weeds that for years have grown in the garden of my heart , without a thought to the effect on my life they would have.

But my hope is in that fresh salad that I will serve myself and my family. It will be perfectly healthy , without flaw because I’ve allowed myself to get down in the dirt and rid my heart of unwanted, unhealthy plants.

All the while trying to keep my eyes on what I DO want to grow.


Last week he drew me away from social media, writing and laundry. That last part is only a wish.

The first day of the fast I cut my left hand horribly on an open can while cooking dinner. Sliced in three places , it was difficult to change diapers, wipe snotty noses and other glamorous mommy things.

Dressing my wound for the hundredth time, my Papa spoke and said:

:: let those wounds air out. All your wounds.::

It was then I knew I was in for a hellacious week. A week of pouring out my heart to him like a child and letting him comfort me. Again and again he brought to the surface of the garden of my heart things I’d planted and forgotten.

We tilled up my soil together and he brought me back to his heart. My identity is in him and not what I have planted or not planted. Not cared for or ignored.

It wasn’t fun or peaceful, but it was necessary to move into the next season of my life. He saw harmful weeds he wanted to pull out before they ruined my fresh salad.

Everyday of this fast I pasted this random patch of flowers, yet to bloom. He told me that when they bloomed I could write again. On this cold nasty morning they have bloomed. Why not yesterday when it was warm and I was wearing sandals?

Because in his timing everything is perfect.

Having dinner with my three children on my back deck last night, in the moon light of the sky he boldly spoke:

:: I brought you here out of my love for you, don’t you see I will bring you out every time?::

What are you keeping your eyes on?

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