The First Rose; The Easter Hope

This past week, I saw it: the first rose of what will be thousands of buds on those hearty, essentially unkillable roses.

Daily, nearly obsessively, I check the garden as the longer days and warmer weather of spring kiss the air and ground. What survived the winter? Are the perennials peaking up yet? And, most importantly, are my Peggy Martin Roses starting to bud?

This past week, I saw it: the first rose of what will be thousands of buds on those hearty, essentially unkillable roses. If you don’t know the story of the Peggy Martin rose, please read it. So powerful and beautiful—one of the most endearing signs of the endurance of life.

I also have multiple houseplants, probably too many. Each has a history—some from years-ago family funerals, especially Peace Lilies. A large one, divided five years ago, birthed eight pots of actively growing greenery, not counting the ones I’ve given away. Joining the normal plant population are a bundle of rescues from my late sister’s house, neglected for months, with vibrancy now slowly returning.

And then, there are the two Schefflera plants I purchased several years ago. Six inches tall then, and now about four feet high, and equally as wide. Around the same time, a small Aloe Vera plant joined the plant menagerie. Now, ten times larger, multiple babies crowd around the mother, new life, clamoring for new, roomier homes of their own.

I haul as many plants as possible out for the warmer months, but they all have to live inside during the winter. I now refuse to water either the Scheffleras or the Aloe Vera for the entire winter season. There’s no reasonable way for me to do it. I told them, “Sorry, buddies, you’ll just have to rough it.” I admit it: I chose my back over my plants.

Weighing far less after months of drought, the plant diet, I suppose, they all went back outside a week ago. The Scheffleras dropped multiple dozens of leaves on the way out the door, adding to the daily drop since November. A lot of water, a little highly diluted fertilizer—and it is already possible to see life flowing into these plants again. Easter perhaps, even for what we see as non-sentient plant matter?

Each year at this time, I also feel myself emerging from the winter cocoon as I enjoy the yearly miracle of spring. This renewal of life comes as the Christian season of Easter approaches —at least in the northern hemisphere—that’s another story for another time—the mark of spiritual new life.

Easter, when darkness is fully dissipated by light, when death loses its sting and is swallowed up in victory, when perfect good triumphs over anything that would try to destroy it.

We live in a world growing increasingly desperate for an Easter experience. The web of interconnectedness leaves none untouched by bombs falling thousands of miles away, or from the desperation of poverty just past our doorsteps. With innocents across the world murdered in cold blood, we, too often, see boastful bombast over thoughtful leadership.

Ultimately, Easter is not a passive experience: It does not just happen to us; corporately and individually, we bring Easter hope.

That hope consists of truth boldly facing down lies despite the cost; compassionate action triumphing over the callous disregard of human beings who might not look or think like us; choosing an ethical life over a get-rich-quick-no-matter-the-means mentality.

Ushering in Easter light costs everything but brings life. Choosing to stay forever in winter darkness may cost less in the short term, but ultimately leads to death.

It is your choice. It is my choice. What shall it be?