1 of 3
The sun peeks over the Mission Mountains, chasing the morning mist from the valley floor where I live. I take the last sip of my coffee and sneak from the house. Weather in Montana changes as unexpectedly as life, so I grab a light jacket. Pulling on my worn, green-palmed gloves, I pick up my favorite hand tool, affectionately deemed Old Three Fingers, and head toward my overgrown daffodil garden.
Shadows lie heavy and dark in the corners of the yard, mirroring the heaviness of my thoughts. Thank-ful for the distraction this project offers, I dig through grass and weed roots looking for surviving bulbs. Old Three Fingers goes deep; I pull with a vengeance, as though my life depends on it. Maybe it does.
I feel as though winter arrived early in my world, ending the season of hope and life I'd known. I'm choked by the unexpected circumstances in which I now find myself entangled. Holding my breath, I twist and pull Old Three Fingers, trying to break the stranglehold of weeds. Suddenly the roots snap, throwing dirt up in my face. My resolve to be brave also snaps, exposing my heart. Tears fall like rain, irretrievable on broken ground.
"The results are back, God," I say aloud. "They don't look good. The doctor says there's permanent brain damage. Some possible rehab or occupational therapy, but it looks like my husband will be about nine years old for the rest of his life." I throw the tangled clump of roots against the garden wall and its contents explode. My garden and my life are reflections of each other. This current catastrophe has picked me up and thrown me against the wall of reality, shattering my world and revealing the contents of my heart, both good and bad.
As the debris separates and settles, I see my first daffodil bulb. Holding it up in the warming sun, I marvel that despite bitter winter and choking roots, it still holds the promise of life and beauty. I prayerfully search among the ruins of my life, sifting through fear, disappointment, and uncertainty to find good. "God, help me."
Taking off my dirty gloves, I touch the smooth surface of the teardrop-shaped bulb, vulnerable yet latent with life. It still has time to bloom this spring. I replant it carefully, patting dirt around it for support. Like this solitary bulb, I also feel exposed and fragile. But I know God tenderly holds me in his hands, supporting me even now as he lovingly rebuilds my life garden. What our future holds will be different, but I must believe it still can be beautiful. "God, help me."
The words "for better or worse; in sickness and in health" have taken on fresh meaning. I now have seven children, not six, and the eldest will never grow up. I'm not a wife to him now—I'm his mother, his caretaker. I throw another weed ball at the wall. I don't think this is a conventional gardening technique, but it makes me feel a little better. I sift the dirt, carefully looking for more flower bulbs.
 E-mail this page   Print this article  Post a comment |
