Leaving the Greenhouse

My son's preschool had their field trip to Moore's Greenhouse today. Mrs. Rhoades asked them all questions about what they think plants need in order to grow. As all the fabulous little people weaved in and out of the greenhouse ailes, their noses at perfect flower level, they reminded me of those wooden chinese snake toys that are really just lots of little wooden vertebrae connected with a barely-visible flexible wire. As you pull it along, the pieces don't seem connected, but when you look closely you can see that they are. When we walked into the tropical plant greenhouse one little boy next to me said, "ooooo, this is like a jungle. It looks just like the jungle in Avatar. I wonder if there are snakes in here?" One parent assured him that of course there aren't any snakes...just before Mrs. Rhoades announced that "sometimes we get some snakes in here". Being in the greehouses was like stepping into another world. The growing plants were mostly insulated and protected from the changing weather conditions and all of the outside forces that they couldn't withstand on their own just yet.

As I watched my son and all of his little soon-to-be kindergartener friends snake themselves in and out of aisles of baby plants, I couldn't help but reflect on the gift that the last almost-five years has been as I have greenhoused him, so to speak. As he has moved from my body, to my hip, and down onto his own two feet, our play, our conversations, our cuddle time, and even our "time outs" have been his emotional and psychological greehouses--places for him to expand himself and move into new space with all of the protection and nourishment he needs.

At the end of the tour Mrs. Rhoades told the children to look up at the roof of the glass greenhouse. She explained that when it hails, or when the snows get too heavy, pieces of the glass roof break. So then they have to go up there and fix it, replacing the broken pieces with new, strong pieces. It hit me hard in that moment that that's just what parenting is all about. We can protect our children and shield them for a time, giving them all of the love and tools they will need to thrive. But there will inevitably be times when the outside world breaks in, exposing them to risk and danger. But just as Mrs. Rhoades explained, in her matter-of-fact, reassuring way, we get up there and fix it. When things break into pieces, we can climb back up, use all the resources and support we can find, and do our best to make things whole. Just as Leonard Cohen says, "There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." With God's grace and our children's creativity, intelligence, and enthusiasm, we can leave the greenhouse and plant our flowers in the garden.

To Life!

So the Missouri Winter is finally over (I think...). The supple butter-yellow daffodils surround light posts, mailboxes, and roadsides. The redbud trees' branches are pregnant with purple bumps ready to burst into the Spring air. The leaves of the coneflowers have fanned out like wide open arms excited to welcome the faces of bright color they contain. This year, though, the clematis vine I planted last year seems the most miraculous. Its once vibrant stem and soft purple petals turned brown and brittle over the Winter. To the untrained eye it looked completely dead. It even felt dead. Then, about a week ago, I saw new green leaves pushing their way through the dead brown nubs on the vine. When I stepped outside to mulch my front flower beds this weekend I noticed the whole clematis vine surging with life. The leaves had pushed all the way through, the vine had greened up and grown supple, and all of the signs of death had completely disappeared. It felt like a miracle. All I had to do was wait and trust in the cycle of life and the awe-inspiring power that sustains it.

Our lives are like the Clematis vine. Sometimes the damaging, painfully bitter winds and storms batter us and wear us out. We retreat into ourselves, and grow more rigid, brittle, less supple, and closed off. For a season it can be important to protect ourselves like this--to stop striving and allow ourselves some time for dormant introspection and self-protection. But when the bitter cold and relentless storms have passed we need to open up again, growing softer and more supple. After our time to retreat we need to push back out into the symphony of life's ryhthms, the perfume of its varied scents, the textures of its complexion--even the thorny, surprising ones we can't always prepare for. Sometimes we may not realize how much is new in us to be discovered. But the lilies don't hold themselves back, the branches don't conceal their buds, and the clematis vine is audacious enough to rise up out of what looks like death, by all outer appearances. We were made to be renewed, to burst with unique beauty, texture, shape, and color. We were made to share ourselves, to inhabit our own space, and to brighten and change the world with our presence. To life!