Tending My Begonias

I put the “gone” in begonias.

As a matter of fact, Joe called every plant, flower, bouquet that crossed our threshold a begonia, because he knew it was but a matter of time before they’d be-gone. 🙂

When Joe’s dad, Mr. Tim, passed away, Joe’s mom gave us one of the potted plants she received.  I placed it on the sunporch, knowing I would soon have to sneak it into the garbage can.  But this particular plant was stubborn and apparently thrived on caffeine and neglect. It received way more leftover coffee and Diet Pepsi than water. When the weather was particularly cold or particularly hot, I’d close off the sunporch, and that plant (named Mr. Tim by me when I realized the stubborn streak it had running through its tiny little veins) would stand proud and lush no matter what.  

Mr. Tim(the plant) was still alive and well on the sunporch when Joe went to Heaven. I was not prepared for the volume of flower arrangements and plants delivered by the funeral home after his service. I gave some away, donated some to local nursing homes, but decided to keep twelve of them at home. It was my goal to keep as many of them alive as I could for the next year.

I guess I had this hope that my black thumb had turned green overnight.  I realize it sounds crazy( and it is, unless you’ve been there), but with death comes the passionate need to see something live. Good sense dictates that, if one’s track record with potted plants is 0 wins/1 million losses, maybe getting a kitten is a better choice, but that is not the choice I made.

I researched these plants and gave it my best efforts, yet month after month, I dumped withered plant remains into the dumpster. By the twelfth month, want to guess how many of those pants remained? Exactly none.  Want to guess who stood on my sunporch, healthy and mocking? Mr. Tim. 🙂

I am not quite sure how treasures in Heaven actually look, but if pearls are included in those, I can promise you that Mr. Tim (the man) was clutching his when he realized that I was moving Mr. Tim(the plant) from the beautiful country landscape of Seven Springs to the city limits of Goldsboro, NC. Leaving the pond and buying the townhouse meant leaving so much of my heart behind, but by bringing Mr. Tim with me, I could see it everyday and remember how much love lives on in precious memories. Other than a few fallen leaves of protest, Mr. Tim acclimated peacefully to his new surroundings and once again proved his determination against all odds of probability and gardening skills.

Every man (and apparently every plant) must, at some point, draw a line in the sand. For Mr. Tim, it was when I made the move from Goldsboro to my current home in Raleigh. Looking back, I think he heard the rumblings of a new job and a new house in the months prior, because he had begun to show signs of slow decline.  However, there was still much life left in him on the day I picked him up from his spot near the dining room window to move him close to the front door.  Legend has it that he leapt from my arms and threw himself upon the hardwood floors, shattering his pot and scattering dirt, roots and limbs as far as the eye could see.  Some may say it was my own lack of grace that caused his demise, but nevertheless, it was at that moment that I knew it was best for all involved if I let him live his remaining days on this side of the Wake County line, and so I scooped him up and laid him to rest in the fertile soil behind my home. 

Fast forward a few years, and you will find that there are several potted plants and small trees in my house. Each of those are either cared for by my husband, Ron, or they are fake. There is no in between. 

Earlier this year, my brother in law, Andy, passed away. He was diagnosed with a terminal illness in April and on July 22, he went to be with Jesus.  Like Mr. Tim, Andy preferred the rich southern soil of Wayne county, where he lived a simple life on the family farm.  On August 3rd, Ron and I visited his home. Such a strange feeling it is to walk into a place where a person lived when he or she did not know they would not ever return. Shoes parked by the bed. A towel left to dry over the shower door. Coffee cup and spoon in the sink.  It makes life feel so fragile and makes death feel so unforgiving.  There was such a heaviness as we walked down the back steps of his house to leave. But just at the edge of the house, we noticed that the very large hydrangea bush had two lone, very lush clusters of flowers (called a corymb, by the way. I googled it). The hydrangea bush at our own house had long since withered in the summer sun, so I was thrilled to see that this one was still offering up such beautiful blooms! 

I asked Ron if we could bring them home, and I know he thought they stood a much better chance of survival right there on that bush, but he cut them for me anyway. 

I got home and placed them in a vase on my kitchen counter, hoping to enjoy them for a few days before they started to wither away. That was August 3rd. When a week passed and they were just as lovely as they were the day I cut them, I was pleasantly surprised. When two more weeks passed, I was astounded. When we were out of town for Labor Day and I remembered that I didn’t check the water before I left home, I fully expected them to be brown and crispy. I did have to pluck a few brown leaves, but they bounced right back and looked as good as the day I brought them home from Andy’s.  In the past week or so, though, they have slowly started to turn, and last night, I saw them and knew it was probably about time to let them go.  

It made me just a little bit sad. 

I guess, in a way, those blooms allowed me to feel that just a little bit of Andy  lived on, even after he went to Heaven. I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. 

And my goodness, I know that feeling well. 

The truth is, my life(and maybe your life, too) has been a parade of begonias—things that come into my hands, bloom for a while, and then are gone before I am ready. Yet, every once in a while, God gently places in our hands a “Mr. Tim”—something that lasts against all odds, that refuses to quit when everything in us expects it to fade. And sometimes, He even gives us hydrangeas that outlive every expectation, reminding us that His timing is not our timing, and His beauty often lingers longer than we ever dared to hope.

Both teach me something. Nothing on this side of Heaven was meant to stay. Loss hurts because love mattered, but this world is passing away, and everything temporary is meant to point my heart upward. Mr. Tim, stubborn and unyielding, reminds me that God can bring life where it doesn’t make sense—He can make things grow even in neglect, even in weakness. Even in me.

 And the hydrangeas, well, they remind me that sometimes God lets beauty last just long enough to carry us through a hard season, giving us a glimpse of His tenderness. A reminder of His love. Oh, how He loves you and me!

So I hold them- all of this world’s begonias– stubborn plants, hydrangea blooms, etc.—with upturned eyes and open hands. Because everything that leaves reminds me that I was never meant to cling to this earth. And everything that lasts reminds me that God is able. In the end, whether something thrives for years or fades in a day, my hope is not found in the plant, or the flower, or even in the loved ones I miss so much. 

My hope is found in the God who promises that one day, nothing will ever be-gone again.

Love you all mighty much-

Ronda