I have a Plumeria cutting sitting in my office windowsill right now. My husband and I got it on our last trip to Hawaii, but the problem is, we went in October, which means I’ve had to do the rooting process indoors. And let’s just say I don’t have a greenhouse.
I want this thing to grow so badly. I bought the special root grower powder stuff, I did research on how to plant in the right way, and I’ve kept it near the sunniest window in the house to try to maximize its exposure to the sun while keeping it protected from the elements.
And then I've stared. Literally stared. I go in there all the time and just look at it, hoping, wishing, praying some leaf bud will form, some flower, something—anything that will show the evidence of life, of roots.
It’s been four months. You’re supposed to see leaves after one to two. In other words, it wasn’t looking good for my Plumeria. Should’ve bought the already-rooted kind, I keep thinking to myself. But the thing is, I didn’t. I wanted this one, with the pretty multicolored flowers on the packaging. From our favorite place on the North Shore. Not some mass-produced Floridian Plumeria from down the street. This is my heart flower, the one I was so careful to keep safe on the flight home.
This week, the Plumeria started changing. No, it hasn’t boomed yet. No, there are no flowers or even leaves. But a couple weeks ago, I adjusted the blinds to allow more sunlight to stream through, and it must’ve done something. Because now, the brown “scars” on the tops of the cutting are breaking up, and the littlest evidence of fresh-looking sprouts is coming through.
Now, I don’t know where you are in your writing journey or what you’re hoping will flower. But I’m writing this because I want you to know—and I believe God wants you to know—there is hope. There is always, always hope.
Maybe you’re looking at the plant that is your writing life, and right now, it looks like nothing more than a dead stick. A very dry, very brown, very brittle stick, breaking from rejection.
It’s very easy to yank up that stick and throw it away. Or to shove a prying finger into the soil to check prematurely for roots. But the thing is—and this is key—doing that will disrupt the natural progression of the beautiful mystery that is life.
God has called you. He has gifted you with purpose, and He desires to see that cultivated and propagated. Sometimes when the seed is still in the soil, the process seems invisible. But don’t mistake visibility for actuality.
Hebrews 11:1 says, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
Maybe it’s winter in your writing life. Maybe everything seems frozen and cold. Maybe God’s even got you on a windowsill beside the sunniest window in the room. Maybe you’re tempted to rip the whole thing out of the soil and toss it in the trash.
You don’t see what’s happening underneath. It’s exactly what you hoped for and so much more than you dreamed. And you don't want to miss the fragrance of dreams.
Where are you hoping God will sow seed in your writing life, and where has He already? Have you seen the evidence of flowers lately? What actions can you take to protect the “dream seeds” God has planted in your life?
*Pictures used from alohaislandweddings.com and exoticplumeria.com