Blooming

Where You're Planted

By Barbara Baumgardner

Reprinted with permission of Bereavement Publishing, Inc. 1-888-604-HOPE (4673)

I thought it was a Christmas Cactus. The tag read, "Zygocactus," and I didn't know what that meant. But it was at Thanksgiving time that first year after my husband died when it bloomed so profusely -- huge, gentle, pink blossoms.

I tried to find a smile, remembering how over-eager I had always been to begin decorating for my favorite holiday. This year, though, my heart was heavy with the prospect of my first Christmas as a widow.

One day, I showed a friend the display of warm, pink blossoms hanging like ornaments on the cactus by the window. She suggested my plant might be a Thanksgiving Cactus and then wondered aloud if it might have been touched by the Master Gardener to help bring some color into my presently drab world. That thought comforted me through the holiday season.

Shortly after Christmas, I picked off the spent, dry blossoms. They crumbled in my hand like sun-parched leaves in late fall. I was feeling like those leaves: dry, worn and unattractive, as I often did after the hectic holidays. But added to these feelings this year was a tremendous void -- the kind left by a husband who had died.

Watering can in hand, I approached the sunny window one day in late January and gasped. The cactus was AGAIN a mass of pink blossoms. "What in the world are you doing?" I questioned loudly.

As I stared in awe at the wondrous pink and green display, I felt a warmth coming through the window onto my hands and arms. In the friendship of that light, I sensed another Presence. The room was filled with the brilliance of that moment. That must be why my cactus was thriving so beautifully. It lived in daily sunshine.

The still, quiet voice of the Master Gardener spoke. The Voice that can be heard only deep within a heart reminded me that when I allow His "Sonshine" to be the light of my every day, then I, too, can bloom where I am planted. Away from His Son, I cannot bear fruit or blossom. I cannot be beautiful.

Now, in the gentle warmth of the sunshine, I often remember that day and it reminds me to look toward God's Son for my light and my healing. He's filling that void with Himself, and that feels pretty good.

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8/13/2000

Artwork showcased is from the collection of Anastasia Czerniakiewicz and used with permission.