I stuck them in the ground when the leaves fell brittle and the air bit cold.
Hard little brown orbs with smudges of earth clinging to them.
I thought about what they would look like there next to the rocks and the perennials I had just deposited in the dirt.
There was only so much I could envision.
I would have to wait.
I’d done it before; waiting for something to birth thinking I had an idea, but really, what did I know?
How could I have known the first one to break from the womb, the first one to steal my heart, would pick up drum sticks and bang chairs after barely mastering walking?
This Drummer, who still bangs worship hard and speaks Wisdom quiet.
How could I have known the girl who came late late late would capture me with her flashing eyes and black hair, a girl bent toward wit and generosity?
This Fiery Irishgirl, who loves loyal and holy fierce.
How could I have known the one who breached the womb would keep me white-knuckled with all his wanderings and laughing with all his comedy?
This Traveler, whose film stories and big heart justice bends toward Jesus.
How could I have known the girl who birthed quiet on a big snowflake falling day would cling hard to my neck, hold tight to my apron strings only to bend into quiet mystery?
This Highland Lass, whose still waters run the depth of a divine sage.
How could I have known the last to come forth would be the one to close the womb behind her, the small one who would speak the loudest and the boldest.
This Pixie Girl, who speaks Jesus brave in color.
It didn’t take long for green shoots to become tall slender stalks and the suddenly of bloom to appear.
This morning five of them bend slight, purple and white fringed petals dancing in little breezes.
I didn’t know they would be this beautiful.
I didn’t know they would hold so much glory in their fragility.
I am captured again.
Captured by God’s workmanship, His poema.
His poems wrought from the garden and the womb.
Us gardeners, us mothers; we forget.
We forget the digging, the sowing, the laboring, the hard breathing.
The heaving of shovels, the heaving of tears.
We forget these things when we look upon all that Jesus has accomplished with us, without us, despite us.
We can’t help but forget the hard work of growing things when we see the suddenly of bloom standing before us, the bloom that He has known about all along.
This Mother’s Day I am brought low with joy.
It is the best vantage point for seeing the glory bloom.