On Mother’s Day 1995, my sister, Jacqui, and I spent the day preparing a special gift for our mom. The condo she lived in was in a great part of town. A narrow neutral area of green space separating her row of condos from the ones behind her afforded limited lawn usage.
Jacqui and I gathered up two of her kids, TJ and Tad, and we went to the local garden store.
Mom’s God-given giftedness covers a broad spectrum. Unfortunately, green is not a color found in her palette. Knowing her proclivity to kill anything green, we looked for plants that wouldn’t take much work, plants she could occasionally water, sit back, and watch grow. We bought a hosta, which I’d admired in one of her neighbors’ gardens, and a rosebush, along with a few other perennial, self-sustaining shrubs we hoped she would like.
We asked the garden specialists about supplies for a lasting garden. They gave us wise choices on how to proceed. We bought the right kind of ground cover to keep out weeds. After buying good soil, we put in a garden barrier to prevent erosion during lousy weather. We then spent the day not knowing exactly if we were doing the right things. We hoped we weren’t destroying Mom’s garden with good intentions.
We carefully installed the barrier in an elongated U shape, backed by Mom’s deck. We laid out the black ground covering, cutting holes in places where we thought the plants would make the best appearance. Hostas love plenty of sunshine, so we planted ours in an area with the best potential for growth. We planted the rosebush close to the steps leading to the deck, so Mom would get a perfect view of the future flowers. We fertilized the soil and profusely watered all the plants.
We were tired, dirty, and sunburned a bit but proud of our accomplishment. Mom, of course, loved it.
Those plants did grow. Every couple of weeks, one of us would go over to make sure they were watered and weed-free. It was a team effort that paid off. The lush, healthy green hosta grew and spread over much of the immediate area. So did the rosebush. It produced many roses over the years. Mom cut them and set them in a small vase on her supper table.
We were proud of that garden. I was a bit concerned some fifteen years later when we moved Mom to a retirement village. You don’t leave behind something in which you’ve invested so much time and energy without wanting to know it will be taken care of.
Mom owned the condo, so after she moved, she decided to rent it for a while. One of the renters was an older lady who loved the garden and took the time to tend to it. Several years went by, and when the garden was twenty years old, on Mother’s Day, I took Mom by the condo, and we knocked on the door. I asked the lady if she would mind if I pulled up a bit of the hosta to take home to my house in Little Rock. She readily agreed. She noted that she hadn’t planted it, but she enjoyed taking care of it.
The hosta was huge. Mom and I went out back, and I uprooted a few small pieces and brought them home to Little Rock, where I planted them in front of my house, under my big red-leafed maple tree.
They took root where I planted them, and they grew strong and healthy.
A few years later, on Labor Day, we moved Mom to Springdale, Arkansas, to a great retirement village where she would be closer to grandkids and great-grandkids. Five days before closing on Mom’s old condo, I told Jacqui I wanted to get a few more cuttings of the hosta to plant in my yard—because one can never have too much hosta in his yard.
So before going to Mom’s current apartment to help load her up, I went to the condo, which now sat empty. I walked to the back and froze in disbelief. The most recent occupants had moved out. They cared nothing about the little garden. They didn’t know its history. They didn’t see the work and love we’d invested or the years of care poured into the plants. To them, the garden was no more than a landfill.
Weeds filled the small garden, and the edges of the leaves of the once beautiful hosta were brown from lack of oxygen and nourishment.
I walked around to the other side and found creepers growing out of the cracked, dry ground and crawling up the back of the deck—vines wrapped around the old rosebush, choking the life out of it. Old food wrappers and plastic water bottles had been thrown everywhere without any thought for the garden.
My heart broke. But memories of what used to be triggered my resolve to do everything I could to make the plants healthy again. To give those precious, God-created expressions of God’s glory a chance, I would have to move them to a healthier environment.
When I told Jacqui I was going to run by the condo to get a few more cuttings from the hosta, she said, “Just be careful to make it look like you didn’t take any.”
“Okay.”
I dug up every last bit of that plant.
I found empty flowerpots filled with trash under the deck. I dumped the waste, filled them with hosta, and carried fifteen buckets to the back of the truck. I walked around to the old rosebush and dug it up as well. Would it even survive? One single branch showed any sign of life.
I remembered when we’d planted it in good soil. I hoped those first nurturing moments filled with love and expectancy would still be alive and kicking in there somewhere, wanting to survive as much as I wanted them to.
After loading the truck, I went to Mom’s apartment. I helped my family pack up her belongings. I gave my sister-in-law a bucket of hosta. We all hugged and waved goodbye to each other as they rolled toward Springdale.
When I got back to Little Rock, I stopped at the Good Earth Garden Center and asked for wise counsel on how to best revive and take care of my plants.
One of the guys walked to the truck with me and looked at all the hosta containers. He told me if I wanted to save them, I would need to cut them all down four to six inches from the root. I needed to plant them just deep enough for the soil to cover the root. Winter was coming, and the plants were tender and would need added protection.
He said the soil would be critical right now. I needed supersoil—equal parts organic compost or new soil added to older soil and some Jump Start.
Then he looked at the old, gnarled rosebush. I could tell by his resigned expression he would say there was no hope for it. Years of neglect had strangled its delicate beauty.
And he almost did say that, but he wisely recognized the bush carried sentimental history. He advised me to cut away all the dried-up branches and leave only the one that still struggled to survive. “Cut away the dead ends of the root, exposing the meat inside, and hope for the best.”
I took new knowledge and wisdom and went home. Of course, as much as we try to take care of plants, we don’t ultimately know what the final result will be. We keep feeding them, watering them, and watching for signs of growth.
I cut the hostas, tore them apart, and planted them, buried in new soil, close to the other ones I’d planted a few years back. Within a week, they were all sprouting fresh leaves. Yes, they would lose them when winter approached, but those strong roots would flourish, and new leaves would sprout again in the spring.
I was worried about the old rose, though. After cutting off the old branches that were no longer useful, I trimmed the root system so new growth could occur. I planted the bush near the steps leading up to my front door. I watched and anxiously waited, remembering the joy of the family planting it together and how Momma had loved it.
But nothing happened.
Then, one morning several weeks later, I walked outside to check on all my new plants, and here is what I found:
Somewhere in that old branch was the memory of what sustained it as a small plant. It knew where it came from and couldn’t deny what God planned for it to be. Maybe the Lord wanted me to be a small part in displaying his creation for his glory. He is the God of resurrection, after all.
Something I’d cared about in its infancy, which had been neglected by others out of my control, revived because I chose to make the first investment and then the second investment, not giving up and even praying.
I hated waiting and not knowing what the results would eventually be. But knowing there was even a 1 percent chance that investing time and getting my hands dirty might make a difference made the anticipation worth it.
I didn’t know what would happen throughout the winter. But I knew I could trust God with the outcome. I’d invested my time and energy—twice. I had done the work of pruning and eliminating the dead and dying branches that would do more harm than good. I’d planted and nurtured rosebush well, and I would continue to pour fresh water and nutrients into its roots.
I am confident anyone reading this will understand the lesson. My sister said, “It’s just like us. God has to prune away all the dead leaves before real growth and life can take place.”
Take time to invest in the plants the Lord places in your life. Invest as many times as it takes. Even when we’re not sure of the outcome, it’s our job only to plant and water. It’s God’s purpose to make things grow. It’s a team effort: us, wise counsel, and God.
First Corinthians 3:6–8 (NIV) says, “I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor.”
I’ll continue to plant, water, and anticipate and expect God to make that old rosebush grow as he desires. I’ll continue to invest.
One sun-drenched spring morning, I leaned against the deck railing outside my front door and breathed in the musky aroma of freshly mowed grass. I glanced at a small area of my flower garden, where I recognized small shoots of emerald-green hosta waking up, peeking out from rich, rain-soaked soil. I ambled down the steps to get a closer look and found, just at the foot of my front steps, this:
