When Glory Bows Your Head

 Heat and humidity have hit my state with a one-two punch this week, after a glorious stretch of spring through April and May. That used to mean long days of frizzy hair (perhaps frizzy days of long hair?) and avoidance of outside activity, but in my new paradigm it means growing season. Each day, almost each hour, my garden is stretching and changing. If I could park myself in a chair and just sit, I'm pretty sure I could watch my bean vines grow. As it is, I make frequent trips to the garden and marvel as tightly wound tendrils slip and twist upward from ankle, to waist, to shoulder, until finally I'm craning my neck to check for blooms. The same basic story is true almost everywhere I turn. Verdant height, midday shade beneath the cooling leaves as I hunt for the babiest of fruits, tipped with inviting yellow blossoms, luring the pollinators to that life-changing sip.

I've said before that a garden is good for my theology. I think of life-giving death as I watch strong, tender leaves push up through dirt and mulch. The gladiolus stalks that have toppled haphazardly in other beds are straight at church spires in their new location, and I remember that good soil and well-fed roots produce the best fruit. The morning glory vines are as curious as a toddler, reaching out to explore in every direction and must constantly be trained to trail upward and grow in safety. Boundaries are blessings. Pea vines untended during vacation topple under the very lushness of their being and the weight of their pods. The fruitful vine needs the branch for support and sustenance. 

Today it's the sunflowers that have caught me. Many of the usually sunward faces are bent toward earth from rain and weight. And glory. In the case of the plants, they are wonderfully healthy and riotously productive. I look forward to all the bouquets I'll be giving away. But every time it rains, we lose a bunch of them. One stalk, laden with six current blooms and as many more buds will simply snap. Or a stalk with only a few blooms will lean over, bowed beyond strength to straighten again. Those glorious ruffled reflectors of the sun face downward, shining on those that walk beneath them. It's almost as though the flowers do their best to kneel in joyful prayer, for their attitude is certainly not one of dejection or grief. How could such a magnificent part of creation, even in brokenness, be truly broken? It's the glory that weighs them down.

And I? Am I not also a glorious part of creation? When rain and weight lower my head, is it not with the glory of God's goodness, sovereignty, providence, and promise? Should I not bow in joy and thankfulness? Nothing comes to my life that does not first pass through His hands. The rain. The sun. The heat. The snapping stalk. No pain is not a blessing when it comes from my Father. 

And so, from my sunflowers, I learn to be content.