Lessons from Dahlias
Dear Friends,
This summer, a package of Dahlia seeds gave me food for thought about the nature of Christian maturity. Two years ago I received a gift: dahlia seeds. Being winter and knowing nothing about them, into the “everything” closet they went and were forgotten… until June of this past summer when I stumbled across them again. Despite having missed the ideal planting season and on the verge of a scorching hot summer, I was tempted by two empty pots in front of our St Joseph statue. They sat on the other side of a glass door, two feet from my chapel spot. I finally mustered up the resolve and in they went, with hopeful anticipation. A little constancy to water them was all it took, nature did the rest. I delighted when the first shoots of green peeked through the dirt. I cleaned out a few stray weeds that had wandered in and thinned out the crowded starters to make room for the healthier plants to take root. They grew and grew and grew, one foot, two feet, three feet high. On a typical morning, I arrived to my chapel spot for morning prayer, and lo and behold, three full dahlias were lifting their faces to the sun. Each one possessed its unique color and design. Enchanted by the plants’ healthy stalks, green foliage, vivacious flowers and a multitude of buds ready to display their splendor, I had the genius idea to assure that the plants would not be harmed by possible fungus. Congratulating myself for the initiative, an anti-fungus spray became my insurance policy. Or so I thought. The next day I arrived to my chapel spot to discover plants, flowers and buds wilted and burnt from the chemical. It was a tough lesson. I should have left well enough alone. Perhaps there comes a point in our relationship with the Lord when we need to do the same. The vocation to loving communion with Him seems to follow the rhythm of those dahlias. It requires constancy in “watering” as we nurture the heart’s desire to seek God. We must “weed, thin and prune” the extra stuff in our lives to make space for deep roots of friendship with Jesus to take their hold. But there comes a time when we must let “nature” takes its course. Far from lethargy or relinquishing our participation in God’s transforming plan for our lives, Christian maturity is the art of humility and surrender. It is knowing when to let go of our desires to control God’s project. Give up our “insurance policy,” so to speak, and let God act upon our nature in His way and time. He is the gardener who knows best how to tend our souls. Thanks to His loving providence, the slow emergence of virtue is possible. We would do well to cast away fears of what might be and contemplate the beauty of what is. To this end, I offer this prayer to the Gardener of our soul: Let my soul be a resting ground for you; that it might be pleasing to You. Make it a garden of paradise according to Your good pleasure. Root out the weeds and do with me as you will. May my heart and soul console you in this dark world where beauty is obscured. Let it be one more place you can come and know you are loved. You are my refuge, but make my heart more like yours that I too may be a refuge for you to be loved and for others to drink from the font of your love. Your Friend in Christ, Jennifer Ristine Jennifer lives in the formation center for the consecrated women of Regnum Christi in Madrid, Spain, and is the author of “Mary Magdalene, Insights from Ancient Magdala” and “Nine Days with Mary Magdalene.”
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