Musings on Flowers and the Flu

March has been a doozy of a month for me and my crew. The beginning of the end appropriately seemed to start with Lent on March 6th. For some reason, I held a somewhat romantic view about starting a period of piety. Ironically (or, I prefer divinely), the time set for self examination and to remember our human frailty would flesh itself out more deeply that I could have known in the days that would follow.

The 7th was the 1st anniversary of my lovely grandmother's graduation to heaven. As I've worked in my garden, I can't help but think about all the plants she grew, what she'd say about certain flowers or shrubs, and how she'd snicker when she offered the uncharacteristically unrefined advice that "You can cut the crap out of crepe myrtles and they'll still be fine". Lately, I've been having fairly frequent dreams about her garden. I walk up the stone steps to the upper part of the lawn to find bright gladiolus in full bloom. There are roses smothering the trellis, the wild purple of echinaceas near the fence, moss creeping between the cracks in the rock wall, and the cat warming itself atop a concrete statue of a pig. It was reality, but is now left to memory and vivid dreams; the kind that make me want to fall asleep again fast to try and pick up where I left off.

The next anniversary was the 16th, which for the past 3 years has left an ache in my heart, as it's when our twins were due. Of all the babies we've been parted with, I carried them the longest, which I think is why they have such a special place in my heart. I guess March will always stir up feelings in some way or another. I miss them all; the treasured memories with my Grandma who was, as well missing our babies and all the what-could-have-beens.

If these remembrances hadn't been weighty enough to bring my heart low, we have been allowed a 3 week portion of time that included ear infections, an intimate dance with the flu, followed by coughs, and now colds. It wasn't until Andrew started throwing up a week after the girls and I had it, that I felt like the joke had finally worn itself out. Similar to a storm, and not knowing exactly how bad it is until it's passed, now that the clouds are parting, I feel like I'm gaining some insight on what we've weathered. Moreover, insight on what the Lord may want me to learn from this marathon of morbidity.

I entered the Lenten season with the desire to remember my frailty, to be positioned low; to appreciate Christ and the joy of His resurrection all the more as Easter approaches. Yet, when the barf hit the bucket, and only a week in I was ready to order balloons for my pity party, I see that perhaps my heart was in need of some repositioning. It turns out that prolonged union with the toilet can have a powerful effect on bending knees and opening dimmed eyes. The loads of laundry and clothing covered in sick, the ache of my arms barely able to lift the baby, the search for medicine in the middle of the night, and sheer Groundhog's day feeling of it all really drove in that Lenten essence of self examination and lowliness.

Last night as I lay in bed thinking over the last 3 weeks of sickness, the word "Resurrection" came to mind. It shocked me for that word to jump out, but after what has felt like various deaths we've been dying, I am in a fresh and desperate position to crave new life. It hit me today as I surveyed my garden plot that the seeds I put into the earth must die for the plants to grow. They give up their lives as seeds forever for something greater to emerge and take root. Their death leads to life. This is a paradox of scripture that I'm certain I will never get over.

As I sit here amongst the piles of tissues and medicine bottles that appear to have claimed permeant residence on our kitchen countertops, I am hoping beyond hope that these colds will be the last of our ailments. But, if they're not, I'll see it as further providential proof of my being sown deeper into the soil, reminded of the life I must lay down, in need of resurrection. And perhaps as in my dreams, at the appropriate time, maybe I'll emerge and grow into something brilliant like the roses or gladiolus in my Grandmother's garden.