becoming a seedling

Seedling - a plant or tree grown from a seed; a tree not yet three feet high; any young plant, especially one grown in a nursery for transplanting.

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On Saturday, I spent the day roasting at an outdoor church festival for work, trying to muster up enthusiasm for all our organization’s programs and working particularly hard to find meaning behind my words. It was a long week for many reasons, and the last thing I wanted to do was work on my highly-valued Saturday and Sunday before starting another long week. Alas, I did. I came home that afternoon completely spent. The sun had zapped what little energy I had started the day with, I heard some very upsetting news on the way home, and I was feeling peopled out and depleted.

I came home and noticed I was not the only one wilting. My little seedlings, regardless of the fact that they love and need sunshine, were feeling exhausted and tired and spent, too. Like them (or at least by the looks of them), I wasn’t sure that I would really come back to life. I brought over my watering can and gave them a drink. Their small leaves bobbed as if to nod at my efforts. Then I fetched an umbrella, propped it up in the raised bed, and gave them some shade.

Then I found the same things for myself--a drink of cold water and a cool corner of my house where I sat and waited. And waited. With eyes open and eyes closed, mind running, body unwilling to run. I should be baking or playing with neighbors or making that phonecall or making use of what’s left of daylight, but I couldn’t move. I waited until I was done feeling lifeless and I could again detect a small pulse moving within. I stood up and decided to drink some more water and go check on my seedlings (big Saturday plans). They were still wilted, but their stems were stronger and clearly absorbing water. I gave them the rest of mine and knew then that we were going to be okay.

And so, I’m working on becoming a seedling. I want to respond to the sunshine, and seek shade and rest in the Giver of rest and shade, whose yolk is easy and burden is light. I want to rejoice in cool demonstrations of provision from above. I want to trust in the promises of God and God's strength made perfect in my weakness and vulnerability. And I want reason to hope that one day I can become like those trees planted by streams of water that bear fruit in their seasons and whose leaves don't wither--no matter how hot the sun gets, how long the weeks are, or how hard the news is. Or upon withering, seek the One who breathes in new life.

Sarah came for dinner that night. We ate Thai food and soaked up a Saturday sunset, moved to the garden and shared drinks and dreams, discussed meaning and marigolds. Sunday I danced in the rain with Amanda, spotted a rainbow when the sun returned, and read and rested with the dandelions. Tonight, there was a beautiful prayer meeting and breaking bread with new neighbors and ice cream cones with all small neighbors and rejoicing in community with housemates. Sun and shade and water and air, and fertile ground in which all things grow, and I feel alive and whole, native, and a transplanted stranger in this place.

Withered turned fresh, I think I am growing.