Tulips
Tulips. Simple and colorful. Blooming early in spring. Welcoming in warmth as the chill and quietness of winter ends. They are a favorite of mine, mostly because they are a favorite of my father’s.
Last year, life was filled with lots of hard. Hard in relationships. Hard in loss. Hard in holding lines for what is true. Hard in many stories that are not mine to tell, but were mine to experience in their middle ground.
And last fall, I did what I always do. I placed my favorite bulbs into the ground. In the middle of hard and in the middle of an unexpectedly empty house, I planted them around my home without the guarantee of hard and empty coming to an end. Without the guarantee of enjoying their blooms with those I care for deeply. As the chill of winter lingered, hard and empty looked like they would continue long past the spring tulip blooms in my yard.
I planted tulips with hope. Hope that as they broke ground and opened into color, joy would be found in the wholeness of stories mirroring the fullness of blooms filling the air. Hope their colorful blooms would bring joy filled smiles to those I care for deeply as we spent time together.
But hope is not always easy. Hope takes believing in good when good cannot be seen or imagined. When hard and empty seemed like they would outlast my tulip blooms, I hoped through tears joy would still come. Joy in stories moving into redemption. Joy in stories I did not know how to imagine.
As spring rolled in, pieces of both hopes rang true. Joy was found in enjoying blooms with those I care for deeply. Those more open in truth than I knew to imagine. Joy was found in rhythms of a house still unexpectedly empty.
And just like hope, tulips full of color also came this spring. Spring beckoned buds to emerge from the soil. They stretched straight and long. They opened big. Their stretch after sitting unseen through the chill of winter reminds me hope brings unimagined wholeness. Fully seen, yet undeserved. A wholeness where life feels more complete and resting in truth comes easier.
And just like hope, a late hard freeze left some tulip stems bent. Try as they might. As long as they are. They simply cannot stretch to fully straighten. Yet somehow they stand fully tall. Their bend after being exposed to the chill of winter air also reminds me hope brings unimagined wholeness. An imperfect wholeness where the hardness and emptiness of life is fully seen and resting in truth sometimes comes with pain and sorrow.
Both the straight and bent flowers stretch to stand tall in the light. Both can be plucked from the ground and placed in a vase to stand even taller as they take in light and grow. Standing in light above ground their life can be readily seen. Petals become fully transparent in the sun. The lines and curves of their stems disappear from view.
Hope, like the tulip, can be plucked from the ground and placed in the light. Plucked from the ground and placed up high. Becoming fully seen and transparent. The straight lines and hard curves of life disappear from view. They fall into the backdrop of what is good: Light.
Light is good and hope brings good. The good of hard pieces never imagined possible. The good of whole pieces never imagined impossible. Some bent. Some straight. All good.
Here, they simply hold different views of the same truth. One truth built on life pulling them forward with guidance to gain a wholly shaped character. The other truth beautifully built on life pushing through resistance to gain a wholly reshaped character.
Hope always has light shining through it. Light seen equally as bright from the straight and bent stems of life. Hope takes believing the unimaginable. It takes remembering we have been plucked from the ground and placed in the light of the Son. In the ray of the One who gives Life.