I walked outside Easter morning into the crisp spring air and frowned upon seeing a dug up hole where newly budding tulips had been the day before; I fought back tears.
Why did these soon-to-be-blooming flowers, demolished by an animal, make me want to cry?
Flowers have been a theme for me recently. Three weeks before Lent, I started asking the Lord what He wanted me to do to draw near to Him during the 40-day season.
Ask for a flower, every day.
Did I hear that right?
As much as that thought delighted and excited me, it terrified me.
Receiving a flower every day would help me see that He’s pursuing me, that as the first paragraph in the Catechism states, “…at every time and in every place, God draws close to man.”
On the other hand, how could I trust that He’d give me a flower every day? I didn’t want Lent to end in disappointment, so I went into Ash Wednesday with low expectations.
That silly flower idea must have been from me, not Him, I thought later on Ash Wednesday as I sunk into bed, flowerless. Before disappointment could settle in, I set my sights on a new Lenten journey: growing closer to Mary by consecrating my heart to her.
The first week of the consecration nocked me on my feet. In little daily reflections, I was asked to give my heart to Mary. My heart had suffered many many times before when I had attempted to put my trust in the Lord. Dream after dream after dream had been added, one-by-one, to the hallway of broken dreams. I took hesitant steps towards Mary those first few weeks, always keeping one hand on my heart because if I reached out with both hands, I was sure she’d snatch my heart out from under me.
I felt myself grasping white-knuckled onto things that I thought would make my heart happy: attention that would prove that I’m loved, a smaller number on the scale, changing myself to please people. It was on St. Joseph’s solemnity when I felt the Holy Family gently inviting me to rest, to stop grasping and to begin the process of giving Mary my heart.
With closed eyes, I envisioned the humble home of the Holy Family; we sat around their wooden table that Joseph and Jesus had crafted. An afternoon breeze wound its way through the open door. Something prompted me to place my broken heart on the table, deeply imbedded weeds tangled around it.
“I give you permission to remove the weeds, the things I’m clinging to,” I found myself saying.
“It’s going to hurt,” Mary said, reaching out to grasp my hand.
I nodded and smiled weakly.
I went back to that image in the coming weeks when I desperately wanted to cling, grasp, and control; I came to realize that it would be easier to daily give my heart to Mary if I could somehow be reminded of her presence.
My eyes landed on a statue of Mary in the chapel, with flowers at her feet.
That’s it, I thought. Whenever I see a flower I’ll think of Mary. The flower image worked and I was constantly being challenged to give her little pieces of my heart.
The consecration was nearing the end when I read in the reflection for a particular day: “The path of holiness with her is a path of roses and honey.” It finally dawned on me: Mary was the daily flower Jesus prompted me to ask for three weeks before Lent started. She was the flower who’d been slowly opening my heart to receive more of Jesus’ love.
I had long forgotten about that hope of getting a flower every day of Lent, yet God in His goodness, knew this little desire of mine, and saw to it that it would be fulfilled!
After this realization, I felt more ready to hand over the dream I’d been white-knuckling the most: my vocation. This dream turned into a weed when I began grasping so tightly onto my plan for my vocation, giving God no room to do His work.
I couldn’t shake the bitter words that emanated from my wounded heart as Mary gently tugged at the weed: I can’t keep waiting, I can’t keep bearing this cross. I can’t keep hearing, “It’ll come at the right time” when I don’t even know if that time will come. I don’t even know how to hope anymore.
In all of it, Jesus and Mary didn’t give answers as to how it would be okay, but they cried with me and held me.
I was still feeling the exhaustion of the pulled weed as I sat with Jesus after Mass on Holy Thursday. I heard Him say, “I cried with you the other night. Please cry with me now as I sit in agony in the garden.” I cried with Jesus over the pain I still felt in giving up control, and He cried with me as He gave up control, surrendering to His Father's plan.
That demolished bulb I saw on Easter reminded me of my heart: broken, a product of what happens when I try to make my dreams grow on my own. Later that day, after Easter Mass, Jesus showed me what He does with dreams that I willingly hand over to Him; I was gifted with a blue orchid, from someone who didn't know the desire I had for a flower every day of Lent.
My heart leapt for joy! The flower I’d been desiring for 40 days was now in my hands. Jesus paid attention to even the smallest details, going so far as to make sure the flower was blue, to remind me of Mary, that she’s the one who’d been my daily flower during Lent, and the one who would continue to show me that a life of surrender makes room for the most beautiful garden to grow.
The blue orchid gives me hope that the dreams I’ve unclenched my fist to will someday bloom, not the way I’d imagine them blooming, but the way Jesus imagines them blooming.
I pray that this Easter season, you can allow your heart to rest. Allow your heart to breath in the sweet fragrance that comes from unclenching. Give the Gardiner permission to do what He does best: tend to your heart in order to plant something beautiful.
With love,
Kirst
