Seedlings, Reconciliation, and the Compassion of God

Thinking about God’s gracious nature while mourning the loss of my seedlings

To err is human, to forgive, divine.

~Alexander Pope

The crisp morning sun creeps over the horizon, its first rays meeting the frosty grass in my front yard. Before long, it’ll warm the early spring earth and continue waking all the grass, trees, and foliage.

I’m ready and excited for spring. Winter has been long and dead. It was a time of preparation and rest, but now it is time to get back to life. Life: raindrops on green leaves, choirs of songbirds, streams of sunshine to dance with the breeze.

With many weeks left until the estimated last frost, I have many seeds started, filling every inch of available space in the sunny parts of my home. I fear that even this is insufficient light: my seedlings are rather stringy, reaching for whatever light they can. When the days warm up, I move them outside, but the strong breezes are hard on the young seedlings.

Fortunately, my greenhouse is finished. I move the trays of sweet peas, broccoli, and cauliflower - plants that are semi-cold-tolerant - into this extra space. During the day, it warms up nicely in there: well warmer than it is outside.

It isn’t supposed to be frigid tonight, so so I make the decision to leave the plants in the greenhouse overnight. My hope is that the gathered heat will hold, and they’ll begin to harden off for outdoor life.

The following morning, I am again greeted by the rising Sun. I feel like Darius going to check on Daniel in the den of lions. Have I sent these seedlings to their doom? I open the door of the greenhouse. No angel has protected my plants.

The cold crept in, and they died overnight.

Rip.

It is quite the bummer, but I have more of most of the seeds. I’ll try again.

As I replant, I think of compassion, mercy, grace, and second chances. The greenhouse, and my own poor decision, failed me. Yet, I will use them all again. This one mishap does not change my perception or my trust forever. Yet, how quick I am to be unforgiving, when my own misperceptions, miscommunications, and mistakes exacerbate the situation.

So, I sow more seeds. Time marches on and the weather warms up a little more. I chance to leave the new seedlings out overnight again.

And they die again.

At this point, you may be thinking I’m a bad gardener with a lousy greenhouse. The thought has crossed my mind, especially when I compare to friends who are professionals with better tools.

But, I don’t give up. I restrategize. I replant. And I wait.

If only it were so easy with damaged human relationships! I never give my greenhouse a side eye and think it’s out to get me. It’s easy for me to acknowledge my own error.

Far less so with my hurt with other people! I misread and misspeak far more often than I’d like to. I think of situations where misunderstandings and stubborn pride have threatened my relationships. Even where there was legitimate wrong, a repentant response absolutely requires my forgiveness. I look to 2 Corinthians 2 - not only forgiveness, but comfort from the community of faith because of Christ’s triumph. That is the gospel of reconciliation I am commissioned to preach and to live.

For Jesus’ example goes even further. Part of the picture of the cross that convicts me the most is the reminder that Jesus died in perfect love for Judas. One of his closest friends for several years, who had just betrayed Jesus to be executed.

The level of love that Jesus perfectly displays is frustrating. When I look at the goodness and perfection of God, it reveals again how disappointingly hateful and sinful I am.

Weeks pass, and I continue to tend the seedlings that I am hoping will survive the last throes of the Frozen North. Winter is not over. The snow continues to fall, leaving a six-inch blanket of white over my greenhouse.

The plastic that coats it, while strong, will be damaged if it holds the snow indefinitely. I knock all the snow off, going so far as to shovel my lawn (I never thought I’d be one of those people) so the snow has a place to slide off to. The burden lifted, the plastic returns to its usual function and operation.

This time, the plants within the greenhouse are covered in frost cloth and have never known anything but the cold temps. Plus, it’s a warm snow. They shouldn’t be in any danger of freezing, but I knock the snow off every few hours to keep everything safe. I’m not in the mood to kill everything in the greenhouse a third time.

It strikes me that perhaps this principle is worth considering in every situation where compassion and reconciliation are necessary: being unwilling to carry the burden that will crush you and doing the next right step to resolve it. Recognizing that the setting is imperfect, and living well anyways.

Yet, a proper perspective is utterly necessary. I am not the one who makes my plants grow, even if I do every step perfectly to tend to them. In the same way, I can give 100% effort toward improving a relationship, and it may still die out. God is the one at work in reconciliation. God who is compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, kind, and abounding in faithful love (Exodus 34:6).

When I consider how frequently I stir situations up (even just in my own head) instead of being a blessed peacemaker, it fills me with shame. Yet, I get to see God through the same lens that Moses used when encountering him.

God is compassionate.

God is gracious.

God is slow to anger.

God is kind.

God is trustworthy.

The most common description of God in the Old Testament, the way people remembered God when they were in exile or mourning, is the core of God’s just character. He is the author of reconciliation, so shame has no place in his presence for the repentant.

So God, I come to you. Broken and a breaker. Quick to anger where I should be patient, a destroyer where I should build, unmoving where I should be gracious. I ask for your forgiveness, knowing that is who you are, and I ask that you would mold me into the image of your Son.

I whisper an “Amen” and smack the last bits of snow off the top of the greenhouse. Before I leave, I peek under the frost cloth.

A few dark green shoots are popping out of the dirt, eager for light and warmth.

Their time will come.

One day at a time.

---

Hey! Thanks for spending ~5 minutes of your time with me! Same time next week?

Until then, list 25 things you’re grateful for, play cards with your friends, and laugh, cry, and sweat every day.

Faithfully,

Katie Stacey

---