Is My Faith Still Alive?

Outside my window, hyacinth pushes through the still cold ground of winter. The green stems and bright blueish-purple flowers of these spring-blooming perennials remind me that longer daylight is on the way. The ground where they now sit was not long ago brown and gray. I couldn’t see their roots or the beginnings of their stems and then one morning, in the light of the sunrise, they appeared—almost like magic. Had I walked right by, not noticing or had they been in my presence all along?

I searched for definitions of dormancy and up popped, much like these buds, articles and phrases like “Don’t be fooled, these plants will be back” and “don’t uproot before these flowers bloom again.” There was a call to care for dormant plants, steps to take to tend to their promised flourishing. There were articles written about the wisdom that these living organisms hold because they know when the time is right to wake up.

And perhaps they know this ancient truth, that to lie dormant is still to exist, to remain, to rest among the dried-up and shriveled things.

It is to wait for water and light to bring life to us once more. Soon these flowers will die, but their roots will stay tucked under the earth, waiting for brighter days and warmer weather.

The ground feels the goodness of rest, free from the endless demand to produce without end. And in famine, we do not curse the soil but look to the sky for rain. The circumstances outside the roots’ control must change to grow and bear fruit

I once heard someone say that our spiritual growth is dependent on us. That we must not only grow—but water, tend, prune, and pluck. But it caused me to wonder, who cares for the ones that wither from the cold because they have not been properly clothed? What about the plants that are uprooted without consent? What about the conditions that cause long moments of dormancy and fruitlessness by no fault of the seed?

And I wonder, in the same way, how we see our faith in winter seasons—like when a fox digs us up and drags us to the edges away from our bed, or when an early frost steals our tender limbs, or when the rain no longer saturates our roots and we are parched for just one drop of refreshment.

Like these plants, choosing life below the surface of what looks dead and shriveled, our faith endures.

We drink water from years past. Foraging for the nutrients of prayers and psalms we sang as children. Remembering and retelling the feeling of warm sunlight on our faces.

Our faith remains, and we too remain beloved, looked after, and cared for. Even when there is no visible, bright growing fruit dancing on our branches. Even when our petals whither from weariness, even when we feel we have nothing left to give the earth, we are worthy of this love.

And through it all, I believe the Gardener comes near, tends, prunes, and replants in good soil. Not to rush us, but to care for us. Not to strain us, but to give us good things. And not to burden us, but to blossom us, in his good timing (often too slowly it seems).

Yet, one thing I know. Your faith is held, dear one. In winter, in dormancy, within the time it takes to heal, rest, and replenish. Perhaps today you struggle below the surface wondering when the light will appear and I want you to know how brave you are to wait, to pause, to risk resting when it seems like others blossom, popping up all around you.

In the waiting, may your roots be met with patience, and may the Gardener bring life and light to you once more.