I am a dabbling devotee of flowers, but my particular fondness is for orchids. They have an unsightly root system that does not stay properly restrained, the leaf is prone to awkward size and direction, and long periods of dormancy almost make the months of blooming insufficient. Even when the stalk is hung with buds, it is not the beauty contained that captivates me -- rather, it is the unfolding of such dramatic shape and color where there had been a dry, seemingly barren, dead stalk just days before. I have "rescued" plants headed for the rubbish heap because I know the latent life concealed by dark, twisted, floppy leaves and brown stems. I'm not even particularly fond of the flower of an orchid, being more of a dahlia or garden rose girl. But the potential for life that is running beneath a dead surface concentrates my attention and care with an intensity those blatant beauties can never elicit. I tend as sparingly as the most finicky orchid could desire, and I wait. Ignoring the spectacle of disarray, I keep my charges in a prominent place, daily noting the tinge of the roots, the levelness of the foliage, the precarious moisture balance of the pots. Always, the change surprises me when I have settled into the waiting.
So, it is the Advent season.
Today is the last day of the week of Hope, and hope to me is much like an orchid. It is an abandoned, withered, ugly thing left-for-dead on the back doorstep, but brought in to be rescued, to be nurtured, to be watered and fed and given sunlight until -- at last! -- a small bright green shoot emerges from the dark tangle of deadness.
It is my heart, prone to wander to the lesser things that were never meant to sustain, shriveled and exposed on the compost pile until gathered close in the hands of the One who made me, who searched until He found me, rescued me and brought the brilliant color of life to the dead places.
It is this beautiful world, broken and dark and helplessly fettered to decay, for whom the Eternal One bound Himself to humanity that He might bring healing and light and make all things new. Hope is the waiting, with expectation, for redemption and wholeness to triumph despite the devastation all around.
The article about the retired gentleman in Florida describes his crowning accomplishment of cultivating and naming a new strain of orchid. Most astounding to the reporter was the source material for his horticultural efforts: the garbage containers of garden centers and florists.
A new creation from discarded and abandoned things.
A greenhouse filled with verdant loveliness that was once mangled and twisted bits of debris.
Hope.
Behold a branch is growing
Of loveliest form and grace,
As prophets sung, foreknowing;
It springs from Jesse's race
And bears one little Flower
In midst of coldest winter,
At deepest midnight hour.
This Flower, whose fragrance tender
With sweetness fills the air,
Dispels with glorious splendor
The darkness everywhere.
True Man, yet very God;
From sin and death He saves us
And lightens every load.
