Flourish . . .
The amaryllis bulb was an Advent gift: scarlet lilies-in-waiting. Yet this one, the size of my fist, was dirt-less and nearly airless, sheathed in beige wax.
Would it grow?
Forced blooms perform out of season, indoors, often far from their natural habitat. Over the years, I’ve tended potted amaryllis. During months of overcast skies, they suggest Spring will again effervesce.
Within days, the first leaf knifed upward. A green bulge followed atop a stem that eventually separated into four elongated buds at right angles, each one shapely as a calligrapher’s flourish.
Red petals flared, a visual fanfare like living fireworks.
Then . . . a second stem, another quartet of six-pointed stars. It seemed a parable-in-progress: as in, we carry within what we need to blossom.
I lopped off wilt but left the waxy coating intact: one bulb, no water, nothing to feed on — save itself.
A few weeks later, six (6!) additional buds crowned stem number three. That’s rare!
Lately, my heroic bulb — now tamped into soil — is eking out rootlets, launching new leaves.
Sometimes we mortals seem to blossom overnight. We call this a breakthrough. An epiphany. A veil lifts, and fresh insight bowls us over, perhaps via glimpses of mercy, mirth, beauty, or truth. The revelation is quick.
We use the word “quickening” to describe that first stirring of the fetus curled in the womb. In a moment, life ignites. As with plants, so with people: verve generates roots and blooms.
But then come the gradual, wearing forces of heartbreak, soul erosion, physical breakdown. What then?
We may feel deprived, perhaps curtailed as my holiday bulb. Yet hope beckons. We learn new ways to weather impediments, outlast their strictures. A season of imposed limitations can also evoke unexpected creativity, break us open in glorious ways.
Will we also store up strength for the future?
My amaryllis bulb must endure being sidelined, for months, to flower again — some fortitude required.
Writer Mark Nepo says, “We are worn to who we are meant to be.”
Not born, but worn. Our personal growth curve benefits from subtractions as well as additions. The old equation holds: he must increase, but I must decrease. No fanfare. No fireworks. Thus, are we conformed to Christ.
This is one way we begin to behold — in ourselves, in our world, and in one another — what is tender and vibrant, if also fleeting.
Eternally drawn through seasons of rest and nourishing grace, we flourish anew.
Lord of Life, you never force us. Instead, you equip us, then coax us to show forth your colors. Remind us you’re still at work—even when nothing remotely green seems to be rising.
Friends, where are you in the cycle: Newly abloom? Temporarily shelved? Somewhere in between?
What is the invitation? Where are you feeling stifled? Is it time for a small fanfare?
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Photo by Vincenzo Tabaglio on Unsplash