The Never Too Dark Side
Jonah loves this little plant. He faithfully checks on it. Tends to it. Waters it. Talks about it. Wonders when the first tiny flower will bloom. And he has never once, in six long weeks, even considered that the plant may be damaged. Or defective. Or too far gone. He optimistically tells me again and again with sparkly eyes, “I think it’s gonna bloom soon, Ma.”
I’m more of a pragmatic skeptic. Always have been. Truth be told, that plant has always seemed a little fragile to me...slightly yellow around the edges of its leaves, almost stunted in growth. But he’s been faithfully nurturing it for weeks now—without a hint of emerging color or a single bloom. And he clings to his hope with relentless, unapologetic faith. So I keep my mouth shut, nodding and smiling and listening as he plans for the future.
The other morning he seemed a little concerned, though. His feeble friend was a little extra wilty. Yellow was now creeping up its frail leaves, making it look droopy and extra worn out. My inner skeptic was screaming, “Retreat, Jonah, retreat! Before your sweet hope is further crushed.” So I gently suggested that his plant may never bloom and that it was okay if it didn’t. He had done his best, and maybe this plant wasn’t worth saving anymore.
But Jonah wouldn’t hear of it. He marched forward smiling, against the odds, and said he would take care of it. So I went on about my business. And he eventually left for school. Later on, when I passed by the windowsill where his puny plant lived, I saw a strange sight. Jonah had propped up his struggling plant with a makeshift crutch...a light saber stylus he had used when he was younger now served as a tiny, life-giving stake. I couldn’t help but smile at this thoughtful, creative effort.
He had used his chubby little fingers to find its weakest point and then had wound the most fragile, delicate stem around that sturdy, rock solid light saber. The struggling vine clung desperately to its stable and faithful new companion. And all of a sudden, my blackened, pragmatic heart edged slowly away from the dark side and started to believe that the force might actually be with him.
Maybe the wilting plant wasn’t pitiful or weak like I had quickly assumed. Maybe it was just temporarily vulnerable. Maybe it just needed the borrowed strength of something or someone stronger until it could grow and flourish on its own.
Maybe it just needed its own special Jedi. Discipline Time. Interest. Focus. Attention. Kindness. Maybe it even needed Jonah’s unashamed hope and faith when it simply didn’t have the strength, stamina, or courage left to bloom.
My little Jedi had kept working in the long waiting. Kept believing in the uncertain middle. Kept focusing in spite of the frustrating setbacks. Kept abiding when others (me) gave up. Kept hoping in the wake of strong evidence that pointed toward the futility of his efforts.
And that right there is the beauty of faith and hope, friends.
It rests in promises unseen.
Endures the monotonous middle.
Shines warm light into dark places.
Waits patiently when others give up.
Whispers quietly into the ears of skeptics.
Transforms even the most hardened hearts.
And it lives deep inside my Jonah as a beautiful reminder to me. That vulnerable isn’t weak and can never be counted out. That clinging to and resting in the strength of someone or something stronger is courageous. And that when strength is finally renewed and hope is eventually restored, it should be passed on to another, whispering the same truth into the most vulnerable people and places.
I impatiently waited for my favorite young Padawan to get home from school, and together we took a look at his plant on that sunny windowsill. And, for the first time, we both agreed about his struggling friend that was now safely holding onto the light saber and leaning into the sunshine for support. We happily concluded that it definitely looked slightly stronger, more steady, less vulnerable. Hopeful even. And surely ready now to battle against the dark side and maybe even courageously and audaciously...bloom.
Hebrews 11:1
Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.