Turn now, O God of hosts, look down from heaven;
behold and tend this vine;
preserve what your right hand has planted.
I almost overlook it altogether as I toss a can into the recycling bin on the side porch. After all, there is not much to see—just banks of brown trampled mush emerging from the melting snow. But as I turn back toward the house, it finally registers on me what I am seeing: the garden bed along the side of the house is making its presence known.
It doesn’t look like life yet. But beneath the sodden mess seeds and bulbs and corms are being split open by tendrils pushing their way up toward the surface. I can’t see them, but I know the fragile yet determined green shoots will emerge—they must. Soon it will be time to tend to them and remove the remaining untidiness of winter.
What else is waiting beneath the surface, outside of my notice? How much potential life escapes my observation? How many other green things are ready to spring forth? How ready am I for the new life God promises?
I, also, am emerging from a winter that has covered me and hemmed me in. I, too, need tending. I head back into the house, contemplating just what God has planted in me, curious about what kind of new growth I will encounter.
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