I asked for a sign. I said, “Lord, let there be wildflowers spring up from the ground.” And you answered. You did. It took two days and a mower catching fire. You answered. You did.

I wonder about the man who joyfully sold all he had and bought a field. Was he satisfied to sit on the treasure he found? I bet he walked that field every day. I bet he scoured and searched the field. I bet he found more treasure than he ever could have imagined.

It’s like it happens overnight

The dead comes back to life

What was buried underground

Dead of winter, not a sound

In the ray’s warm sunlight

The dead comes back to life

It happens overnight

Without a warning, sound

It springs up from the ground

Watering, feeding, inspecting, protecting, supporting, shaping. A single vine requires daily care to begin to produce even the smallest fruit. I wonder why we imagine our souls to need any less.

It wasn’t more than a week that my attention was focused elsewhere, when I came along the side of my garden and found it overtaken with rot. The fungus had spread undetected, wiping out nearly all of my favorite plants; the Sedum August Charm. The understanding of this reality struck my soul. So quick. So easy. So devastating. It made me think how often the instruction to not turn to the right or to the left is repeated. It made me think of roaring lions, prowling around, seeking for someone to devour. It made me think of the cry to search me and know me, to purify me and create in me a clean heart. Rot blooms so rapidly, spreads so thoroughly, and death sweeps right behind.

I have a Purple Clematis planted along a Wisteria trellis in my side yard. When I planted it, I wrapped its thin, fragile vines around the poles of the trellis. But each morning, I would come out to find the flowering vines in a tangled clump on the ground. Gently, I would separate the shoots and leaves and place each vine back on the trellis, tying the stems where they could reach. But still, in the morning, I would find the vines blown off, slid down, tangled together or upside down. Continually, I would tenderly unwrap, unwind, and secure each vine, building in more and more places to hold as I go.

I wonder if this is what Paul means when he says, “[God’s] kindness is meant to lead to repentance.” I imagine the father gently unwinding my heart and mind from all its tangled mess, saying; “I know this trellis doesn’t seem to fit your fragile form. Here child, wrap yourself here. Hold tight to my goodness in this place. Reach for that tether of grace, just above.”

 

A harsh, harsh frost came this December. The camellias had been ripe with buds. Tender green cones covering every inch of the bush. Now hard, browned, and bitten, I thought none would bloom. Surely all had been lost.

Some were. But not all.

We moved here in the winter. When most plants and trees are dormant. At the time, we had no idea that thousands of daffodil bulbs were spreading and multiplying beneath the surfaces surrounding our home. Today if you came, there would be no evidence of the yellow fields forever. But I can call them to mind.

It reminds me how good it is to remember. To be reminded. Psalms, hymns and spiritual songs from the mouths of those who know, who hold the melody in their hearts. And the whisper of the One who says; “Forget the past. I am the God who makes a way in the wilderness. Do you not perceive it? It is about to spring up from the seemingly barren ground.”

This is a fragile dapperling. The most significant fact about it is that it is fragile. Very fragile.

I wonder if it grew through the arms of this branch, or if the branch fell down around it.

I used to be terrified of snakes. Just thinking about their heads and the way they move made my skin slither. When I moved to the woods, I began walking every day. Slowly. Silently. Just looking. Absorbing my surroundings. The first time I spotted a snake sunning on the rocks by the pond, it stopped me in my tracks. My heart began to race and beat painfully hard in my chest. I was frozen, before I slowly backed away. I didn’t walk for days. And when I did begin again, I was on alert. So alert that as I was crunching over the fall leaves, I sensed the tiniest movement and again stopped short. I stood in place staring hard at the litter around me. And could make out the narrowest tongue, tiny eyes and oval head. I stayed still, staring. Then slowly walked away. Days after, I was walking down the path between my brother’s house and mine, when I noticed four feet of black cord moving to conceal itself underneath the wooden steps where I was walking. I paused to watch it go, then continued over the planks. Not a week later, I crossed my driveway right next to a slender black and white head popping up out of the monkey grass. “Aww cute” was the first thought I thought. Followed by, “wait, what.”

Somewhere in the walking. Somewhere in the absorbing. Somewhere concealed. Something basic changed. And it surprised even me. And I wonder if this is what it means to be transformed by the Holy Spirit.

One day, I noticed bright orange smooth chanterelle next to the path. They were scattered across one bend. Sprouting through for no more than three feet along the way. The next day they were gone.

I wonder if this is what it means that “His mercies are new every morning.”

I wonder if the deer ate them.

There’s a creek that runs through my whole property. But you wouldn’t know it driving to my front door. Even looking through the windows of the living room, you wouldn’t see. You’d see woods and an overgrown pond. But you couldn’t tell that the entire wood slopes down to a twisting creek. There is clear, running water year round, no matter the rain. It’s fed from an underground spring. Sometimes it’s just a trickle. But it is always there. Hidden from view. Unseen by most of the people who have been to my home.

There are also trails. They were here before I was. Narrow paths along the ridge of the creek, and crisscrossing through. Deer trails. I tell everyone about the paths in the woods. And the creek. But only one or two have walked them with me.

I wonder if this is what Jesus means when He says, “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” And also what He means when He says, “The way is narrow and the path is hard that leads to life, and few will find it.”