There was a dandelion - its stem balancing on the edge of a glass - on my kitchen counter when I got home last night. A normal sight in my kitchen during the spring and summer, I was perplexed to find it there at the beginning of November. I was not perplexed that it was closed up and beginning to shrivel, though. It was out of its element, and what can thrive that way?
That same dandelion caught my attention while preparing dinner today, except this time it looked different. It was open, full, and appeared to be thriving. It also was no longer hanging over the edge of the glass; its stem was fully immersed in the water. In between mouthfuls of pasta, my daughter excitedly shared every detail of this dainty flower’s story during dinner. From its discovery to its transformation, from closed to in bloom, and from its current state to planning its future (apparently we are starting a dandelion farm), she was a reel of unstoppable joy.
All the while, all I could think about was how this meek plant had surrendered.
It is not time for dandelions to burst through the soil. Winter is approaching, there are no insects flying about to benefit from its arrival, and the only flowers in bloom (at least around these parts) are potted mums. It was a lone ranger in the withering grass and carpet of fallen leaves.
While absorbing her joy, I pondered how its surrender ultimately would result in growth. I wondered how many times I have obstinately fought against growth because I didn’t feel ready, because it intimidated me, or because I simply didn’t want to do my part in it. I can’t imagine bursting out of hiding and into an atmosphere that is unlike that which is ideal for my flourishing, at a time that is not agreeable to my existence, and doing so entirely alone - to the point where it is inevitable that I will stand out. Yet that is exactly what happened with this flower.
As she planned our future with its seeds, I pondered the generational blessing that comes from surrender. I wondered how many times my surrender has been the avenue through which God has planted seeds in the hearts of my daughters, my nieces and nephews, my friends’ children, or even my students. I basked in the beauty of that unknown, grateful for God’s omniscient and omnipresent nature, always so meticulous in His planning and execution.
I returned to her planning of our gardening future with one conclusion: I want to be just like that dandelion, not just today, but always.