by Lawrence Elliott
In November, my husband, Tim, planted around 3,000 tulip bulbs in our garden. It took him a few days to dig up the dirt, place the bulbs in the ground, and cover them back up. I did not help. I never considered myself patient or mindful enough for any gardening type of work. I did not think much of the tulips again.
Then, a few months later around the end of February, they began to bloom. They were stunning. I have never seen anything like it. Gathered around our Japanese maple lay a boundless ocean of white tulips, still wrapped tightly enough to remind us that there is more to come.
Beckoning Spring. Signaling hope.
Tim had planted three different varieties: early, mid, and late season tulips. As soon as the early season white tulips began to fade, the mid seasons emerged. Beauty remains. Mostly white, but a few bright red ones appear.
Strangers stop to take pictures. Neighbors marvel
.
We have a constant supply of fresh tulips in our home. We give them away. We never fear that there will not be enough. We need to share this gift.
By now, it is the middle of March.
We are in the midst of a pandemic that has stolen our neighbor’s life and threatened my father-in-law’s life. Another neighbor, whom I love very much, is living boldly with a cancer that is going to take her soon. I do not want her to die.
The beauty and promise of Spring is eclipsed by death and grief. In the midst of this darkness, our late season tulips catapult like cannons. In this vast ocean of death, abundant life surges. They rise tall, taller than the others. They tower over death.
This show is not over, friends. Beauty remains.
My grief surprises me when the late seasons begin to die. I want to keep this gift. I want to cling to something beautiful as we navigate this season of uncertainty and loss. I can’t keep the tulips from dying, though, and the sadness and anger wells up in me.
Tim then tells me it is time to dig them up, so I decide to become part of this story and help. Why did he go through so much effort to plant these tulips if we just had to dig them up? Because they are beautiful, Tim says.
There are now 3,000 bulbs in the ground that we have to dig up. Why can’t we just keep them there?
So we can make room for something else beautiful, he says.
As I search for tulip bulbs on my hands and knees, I reflect on the process of life, death, and all of the work we are invited into in between.It is very messy. I am covered in dirt. What will we plant here?
Wildflowers, he says.
There are a few things that the tulips reminded me of.
I hope I do not forget these truths:
1. willingness, patience, work, and time lead us to profound gifts
2. we need to hold these profound gifts loosely; some are not meant for us to keep
3. when being human feels lonely and scary, remember the tulips.
4. no part of any story is wasted. Beauty prevails.