Green Thumb

“The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor.” 1 Corinthians 3:8

In the 1970s, along with shag-carpet and avocado-green appliances, everyone had houseplants hanging in macrame plant hangers. Leafy green jungles in living room corners. Spindly ferns cascaded from books shelves. Spider plants ornamented windowsills. African violets speckled countertops, desks and dressers. My mom has always been proficient in plant-husbandry. In my childhood, she had a huge dieffenbachia in the corner of our living room in a rustic barrel, lighted by a green-glass swag-lamp hanging from a brass chain. I remember dusting it’s large, waxy leaves with Lemon-Fresh Pledge and burying plastic animals knee-deep beneath it, in rich, dark soil. Its enormous leaves their makeshift canopy of make-believe.

Unlike my mother, I have never had much of a green thumb. Until recently, I wholeheartedly disliked house plants. When given a plant as a gift I would thank the giver and secretly think how sad it was that they had just given this beautiful plant a death sentence (and me a guilt complex). I always admired friends who could make anything grow. Lovely yards alive with color, hanging baskets, climbing vines, towering trees. But my yard was destined to flower only briefly, as long as the climate provided the right combination of temperature and precipitation. Once the yard was in my hands, instead of Mother Nature’s, brown became its color palate and dry became its climate. I would try heartily, but my black-thumb would ultimately prevail and I would mourn the death of green.

Recently, I was gifted (another) houseplant. A lovely little flowing plant that seemed pretty healthy. With hope in my heart and smile on my face (forced as it may have been) I prominently displayed it on my kitchen table, lovingly watering and pruning off any dead leaves or blossoms as needed. Almost immediately the leaves turned a pale, sickly green… (but not brown!) I’ve never faced this dilemma before. What could it be?

Too much water! Bound and determined to make this one survive, I had been too eager in my watering routine. Backing off, I found a watering-rhythm that the fancy little flora seem to approve of. Slowly over time, I began to see new shoots extending from its limbs. Healthy, vibrant leaves unfurling toward the light... It was working... “Come on, little plant, you can do it,” my heart called. I would place it in the morning window to capture the sunlight. I would tend it and water it and subconsciously pat myself on the back for finally saving one. I was doing it. My black-thumb was acquiring a green hue.

What a lovely spring it was. I would water... my plant would grow. I would tend... my plant would grow. I would sometimes forget about it (hey, at least I’m being honest here)... my plant would grow! This wasn’t so hard. This wasn’t so bad…

Until, one day, three little leaves on a stem began to change from a rich, vibrant green, to lifeless yellow. Too much water again? No, that didn’t seem to be it this time. I held to my routine. Slow and steady wins the race, right? Those three little leaves shriveled to a brittle brown and broke away, falling into the pot’s soil. Then those three little leaves turned into five little leaves, then ten, then a dozen and not just little leaves, but stems and branches. It seemed like each morning I would wake to find my dear little houseplant disintegrating before my eyes. I put in the effort... but it didn’t thrive. I did what I was supposed to... but it didn’t survive.

Much like a house plant, relationships need nourishing. Relationships need attention and intention. But sometimes, no matter what tactics we take, no matter how we feed them, tend to them, nurture them, the relationship doesn’t survive. Relationship is investment: time, energy, effort, sometimes money and always a piece of your heart. Not to mix metaphors here, but, you invest your heart like chips at a poker table. Gripping deftly the cards you’ve been dealt. To let go of a broken relationship is to lose the hand after you’ve gone “all in”. It's to let go of that piece of your heart.

But…

The heart is a tenacious organ. Unlike a fern or an African Violet, the heart has the ability to forgive. When forgiveness enters, healing begins. The lost relationship stays lost, but the heart begins to grow back. Lessons are learned. Wisdom is gained. The new growth is strength.

Letting go of a failing relationship is worlds more difficult than letting go of a failing houseplant. Letting go of a broken relationship is a heart-wrenching lesson in control. I couldn’t make that little house plant thrive, no matter how I well treated it. It wasn’t healthy. I tried to fix it, but it couldn’t thrive. It brought me joy for a season. It beautified my home for a time and gave me a focus. Richness is found in relationships. Relationship with others brings joy even if only for a brief time. People come in and out of our lives and it’s our responsibility to foster the rhythm of the relationship while it is alive and flourishing and loosen our grip when it is failing to prosper.

Like the memory of a distant decade with macrame planters and polyester pant-suits, we can be grateful for relationships that have left us. We can also honor the impact they had in our lives. How they have molded us into who we are now and how they continue to change us even in their absence. We can be appreciative of the purpose they served and the beauty they gave in their time with us... And this doesn’t even require a green thumb.