Lessons from a Houseplant
I’ve never had a green thumb. The day we sold our lawnmower I cried tears of joy. My family was moving to Arizona and I couldn’t wait to put the toilsome hours of weekend yard work in our rearview mirror.
Upon our arrival at our new home in the Sonoran Desert, I took in the landscape. Nothing but rocks, sand, and cacti. Our “backyard” was a glossy pad of bright green Astroturf. I let out a sigh of relief. For the next seven years, the most I ever did to maintain our new terrain was spray the occasional weed. I exclusively potted succulents for the patio. They rarely need watering: the perfect fit for someone like me who’s been unsuccessful at fostering even the most beginner-friendly of plants.
After our seven-year stint in Arizona, we found ourselves moving on to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I begrudgingly handed out my potted succulents, (which were still thriving, by the way) to friends before we departed. The yard surrounding our new home was lush and vast. I groaned and trudged off to the hardware store in search of a lawnmower. Not surprisingly, I saw no succulents in the garden department. In contrast to the drought-tolerant plants of the desert, Mississippi's moisture-laden soil craved things like ferns and flora of all varieties. We’d only been there a week and I was already feeling defeated.
After hearing me complain about my black thumb (I had to Google the opposite of green thumb, that’s how dense I am about gardening), a friend suggested I try houseplants. I gave it some thought. I’d had two houseplants in Arizona that miraculously survived the move. Maybe not all hope was lost. Maybe, just maybe I could redeem myself as a plant owner. I decided to give it a shot.
The weather on the Gulf Coast was dreary and overcast all year round. I found the brightness of my new natural plants helped offset the grey skies and perpetual rain. Soon I had at least one plant in every room. Despite the bleakness of the weather, my sweet little plants began to grow. Well, not just grow, thrive. The green of their leaves became richer. Their stems proudly grew taller by leaps and bounds. There was no sun to stretch toward, but stretch they did. Their newly sprouted branches would reach for the nearest window, convinced there was something there that would be worth the effort. I couldn’t explain it. Not only was there a lack of sunshine, but a lack of attention. (I basically ignored them. Despite my best intentions, I was a very selfish plant owner.) The perseverance my houseplants showed was astounding. How could they thrive under such dismal conditions? I certainly wasn’t setting much of an example for them.
We lived in Mississippi for a total of fourteen months, and even that felt like too long. Much like the rain clouds that constantly settled over our home, a heavy blanket of hardship fell over our family. My husband began to battle severe depression, anxiety, and burnout, leading him to step away from his twenty-year career in pastoral ministry. My children were struggling to make friends, often feeling isolated and homesick for our Arizona community. I bore the weight of their sadness, with no one to help shoulder the load. We’d left a literal desert only to find ourselves in a metaphorical one. Most days I felt I was just surviving. The insistence my house plants had on growing served as daily inspiration for me. If they can thrive in this place, I thought, so can I.
I studied them closely. I wanted to find out what it was that spurred them on to stay alive. It soon became obvious: they were consistently reaching for the light. No matter how overcast the skies, through the windows there always shone natural light. That light was a lifeline for my thirsty, neglected plants. With a trust that can only be described as instinct, my houseplants knew the light was their best hope for survival. My faith was telling me God was my best hope for survival, too. I only needed to reach for Him.
At first, I was hesitant. I stretched out my hand, but not too far. I began to spend more time in the Word. Seeking consolation, I came across Psalm 143. “Lord, hear my prayer, listen to my cry for mercy; in your faithfulness and righteousness come to my relief. […] I spread out my hands to you; I thirst for you like a parched land. […] For your name’s sake, Lord, preserve my life; in your righteousness, bring me out of trouble,” (v.1,6,11 NIV). At the feet of Jesus, I found a welcome home for my fear, worry, and the burdens I carried on behalf of my family. Soon my outstretched hand became an outstretched arm, then both arms. Before I knew it, I was in a posture of surrender.
As each plant around my home continued to grow, I noticed a small collection of dead leaves forming around their base. I panicked at first, thinking they were dying. But then I realized, no, they were merely shedding their old leaves to make room for new growth. I gently removed the shriveled, papery pieces from each pot. Without them, the plants looked brand new again. This, I discovered, was the key to my livelihood too. To continue growing, I must release the dead weight I’d been carrying. With arms stretched toward God, I shed every anxiety and every fear that had filled the space in my heart. Without them, I had room to grow. I felt renewed. The peace I found in God’s light restored my life. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I settled in, stretched my roots down deep, leaned toward the Light, and began to thrive.