It's time to replant!

This semester in seminary, I am taking a writing course.  I'm a blogger and like to tell narratives that come alive on paper.  Academic writing is an entirely different ballgame, so I'm excited about the opportunity to increase my writing skills.  One of the writing prompts this week was to share one of our earliest memories of writing.

This is what came to mind...

I am not quite certain that I remember in detail my first writing experience, but I do know that I was a letter writer.  I used to write my mother little notes to express my feelings.  Wait, I do remember something!

My mother loved plants and in front of the back-glass patio door was her table full of different types of plants.  Each day, I watched her talk to them, water them, pick off dead pieces and just smile as she watched them grow.  One evening, while my parents were out, my little brother and I were playing around and I fell on the table, knocking one of the pots to the floor.  The plant came unrooted and one of the branches snapped.  I'm pretty sure horror was plastered across my face! I scrambled to pick it up and clean up the mess.  I tried to pack the dirt back down and stuffed the broken limb back into the dirt. 

For the rest of the evening, I watched the plant table to see if anything would change.  Would anyone notice that it looked different?  Would the other plants on the table expose my clumsiness?  My stomach was in knots! After giving the plants the ‘side-eye’ for the rest of the evening, it was time to go to bed.  My older brother coaxed us into going upstairs and getting in the bed before Mommy and Daddy returned.  But something was not right.  I had a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.  What was worse, breaking Mommy’s plant or acting as if nothing ever happened, which was really lying about it?  So, what did scary Sharri do? 

I went back in the den, picked up the weary plant, placed it on the kitchen table and wrote Mommy a note of apology before going to my room.  I do not remember the exact words, but I can feel the sentiment even now.  I expressed in the letter how sorry I was to break her plant and I would pay for her to get another one.  After having bared my soul in the letter, I went to bed.  The next morning, when I came down to the breakfast table, the plant was gone, the note was gone, and no one ever mentioned a word about it. It was at that point that I realized to always be honest, not just in my behavior, but honest in my writing as well.  Thanks Mommy!

First of all, kudos to Mommy for giving me the space to be a kid.  Retelling this story makes me think about how important grace is.  She could have responded in so many different ways, but maybe my authenticity connected with her spirit and she already felt my repentant nature.  I hope that I have been able to show this type of grace to my children.

This also showed me something about opening your heart to people and being authentic.  At my core, I wanted Mommy to not be hurt that her beloved plant had been uprooted.  But she probably looked at me as that little plant that would be uprooted time and time again throughout my life.  She knew that the plant wasn't dead, it just needed to be replanted.  Of course, I didn't know that.  Maybe that was a lesson in life that what appears to be broken, really isn't.  Yes, the foundation may have shifted, but it can be replanted and the dirt gently packed around the roots once again.

What you thought was lost and over, is not.  The dirt has only shifted, go back and replant it another way.

Now show yourself some grace, start replanting, and walk it out....