During the first year of the Covid-19 pandemic, I almost felt guilty because it had hardly disrupted my life. Year Two began to change that. Different views on the vaccine caused tension at home and everywhere we went. By fall, we were dealing with unemployment, uncertainty, and insecurity. A broken relationship within our extended family was breaking our hearts. Despite releasing two books that year, my writing career discouraged me as unpublished manuscripts received nothing but rejections. Fatigue ruled. A cold, bleak winter closed in. My heart felt heavy.
While grocery shopping one day, a package of tulip bulbs caught my eye. I’m not normally an impulsive shopper, and the budget certainly didn’t allow for extras. Furthermore, I’d not experienced much luck with tulips in the past. But somehow, I sensed there’d be a need for some color, some sign of new life, as early as possible come spring—if indeed spring ever came. I bought a package of twelve bulbs.
I chose a spot in clear view from my kitchen window and planted the bulbs in my vegetable garden in two patches of six. I threw a layer of dead leaves on top for an extra blanket. “Please Lord, let these flowers come up and bloom,” I prayed. They became a symbol of hope for a brighter future and of God’s faithfulness even as I chided myself for assigning them so much weight. What if they failed to materialize?
Over the long, cold winter, I often thought about those bulbs buried under the record snowfall. How could anything survive out there? If those flowers refused to appear, it would feel like one more kick in an already difficult year. I shouldn’t have set myself up for more disappointment.
When April passed with no signs of spring, it confirmed my notion. Had we somehow crossed into Narnia, where it’s always winter, never Christmas? Just when we thought the snow was beginning to melt, another blizzard would come along and bury everything. Again. May came along and still no tulips appeared in my backyard. Though the snow began to recede, and though I saw happy tulips in neighbors’ yards, mine must have been dead before I even planted them.
Then one day in mid-May, I shoved aside the blanket of leaves I’d thrown over the bulbs. Small green shoots poked up! Would they grow? By this time, clouds, wind, and rain inundated us. Surely, these babies craved the sun as much as I did.
A few days later, I saw another. Then another. By May 28, all twelve of my tulips had not only grown tall and straight, but each sported a brilliant flower in red, yellow, or cream. I can’t describe the joy they brought to my heart. By the time the last petal dropped in mid-June, lilacs, apple, and plum blossoms had stepped on stage to display their glory.
My tulips accomplished even more than I’d hoped. Though they emerged and bloomed far later than expected, they reminded me that God is faithful. His timing is not ours. He alone can bring indescribable beauty from seemingly lifeless things. Perhaps most of all, the flowers assured me of his love and care. I had not been wrong to grant them that much power. I was not forgotten.
Neither are you.
“But these things I plan won’t happen right away. Slowly, steadily, surely, the time approaches when the vision will be fulfilled. If it seems slow, do not despair, for these things will surely come to pass. Just be patient! They will not be overdue a single day!" (Habakkuk 2:3, The Living Bible).
These tulips are not mine. Mine were this nice, but my photography skills are not.
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