I have never grown dahlias, but aspired to this very year. I ordered four tubers from a respected farm, a hefty investment in a first attempt. The expected range for shipping marked on my calendar, I awaited the parcel. Meanwhile, I collected the proper household compost to fortify soil and finally tucked the delivered brown paper package away in a cool, dry, dark place until the established planting day. My dismay on May 10th was profound, because the mailer was cramped with pale twisted forms of attempted, stifled, premature growth. I planted them anyway, despite the fact that only one was able to head upward without first needing to execute a u-turn with its warped white stem. I watered, hoped, and whooped it up when green leaves appeared on four upright stalks. Over time the runt worried me, but my confidence climbed as the largest attained a robust height of eighteen inches, robed in a profusion of deep green leaves and the hint of a bud.
And then, last week, I checked the weather through the window overlooking my new flower bed and saw my pride and joy lying broken on its side, stem trampled by some marauding beast. When I finally accepted the horizontal condition of things, I dunked the torn stalk into a 32-ounce Ball jar and propped the wilted leaves within a sheltered nook. It was the only thing I could think to do to give those buds just a little more time to mature. After three days with no visible improvement (unless I squinted very hard) I dumped potting soil into the water to provide nutrients. And then I waited.
I think the Bible uses garden analogies to apply truth immediately -- shallow soil, fruit bearing plants, trees flourishing near water -- but also to firmly fix our minds on the depth of knowledge to be drawn from contemplation of growing things. Yesterday I told God I was finished. Wilted unto death.
I need help, I said. Hope, I corrected myself. Divine intervention -- because my human effort is all used up with absolutely no source for restocking. This bruised reed has been pulverized.
All through the night I drooped -- fear and sadness and guilt and regret weighing on me while snatches from the Psalms reverberated the same cries through the millennia of recorded time.
With morning there was hope for relief. It was Sunday, after all, and surely God would be faithful to meet with me. I was taking Him at His word -- going where two or three were gathered in His Name...believing He would be there. Still, I composed a text to a friend, through tears: Please pray. I'm not okay.
Waiting on the front porch with my 87 year old mother-in-law we spent our last ten minutes before departure in consultation over the Ball jar contents.
"Do you think," I hesitated, "I should cut off all the large lower leaves so that no energy is wasted?"
"I guess. It couldn't hurt," she encouraged. "Just be careful you don't snip a bud."
That done, I cocked my head at the results. "What if I shortened the stem -- so that the water has less distance to travel?"
"It might work," was her doubtful assessment, followed by the suggestion -- "Maybe you should put it out in the rain so the leaves get soaked."
And God was there in worship. And in a picnic lunch just three of us. And in an afternoon visit with friends whose family has expanded from two to five through miraculous provision.
This evening, while taking her walk up and down the driveway before bed, my mother-in-law called out to me.
"Have you seen your dahlia?"
"Oh, no," I breathed out. "Is it worse? Did it die?"
She pointed, and we both grinned as I clapped and jumped up and down like a pogo rider.
It was strong and straight and green. At least for today.
But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head.
I cried aloud to the Lord, and he answered me from his holy hill.
I lay down and slept; I woke again, for the Lord sustained me. Psalm 3
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