Considering the Lilies

Not long ago, I repotted the hardiest plant in the world. I know it's the hardiest because I've owned it eight years, and it's still (mostly) green.

See it there, happy in the book corner? It loves books.

My grandma gave it to me when I taught in a classroom with tiny windows. I set it on the bookshelf, and it grew long and lush like it lived in the rainforest. When I moved to a classroom with no windows at all, its vines stretched even longer.

It was thick and heavy, and it rode in our U-Haul truck three different times. In each home, in every lighting, when it was forgotten and when it was remembered, it grew. No matter what, it thrived. 

After its third ride in the moving truck, I set the plant on a wicker bookshelf.

Happy, even with the brown spot from its night spent outside.

A few months later, I was vacuuming our little apartment when I bumped into that wicker bookshelf. The plant fell in a hailstorm of soil and roots. 

I cried while I cleaned up the mess. I thought it was hopeless.

But I remembered something my mom had said about this plant - that it could grow roots from nothing. So I put one of the leaves into a glass of water and waited.

And of course, Mom was right.

When the root was puny but the leaf was still green, I planted it. And now it has seven leaves.

Or make that eight.

See the sprout? That's a new leaf.

I'm amazed at new growth when I remember the struggle this plant's had. It once spent a night outside. It's lived without any sunshine. It's been forgotten and abandoned for weeks at a time. And it's still growing like a weed - like the tough little vine it is. 

One little leaf started a whole new life. And she looks happy now, doesn't she?

Sometimes a little light. . .  

and some stretching space for our roots. . . 

are just what we need to grow strong. 

And we'll discover the secret to thriving is trust. We trust the One who gives us all we need - because He is all we need. He's light and water and food and vine, and He gives us room to stretch ourselves long. 

And from our weak little root comes something unexpected: multiplication.

Considering the lilies (or the philodendrons),
Becki*