Last year we decided to have a family sunflower growing competition. We ceremoniously gathered the family and planted 16 seeds. They grew well initially in compost, but when we transplanted them to the bottom of the garden to grow by the wall, they died, one by one. The one that made it was short, wilted, and eaten by bugs. It was a sad affair. (Although Maisie still claimed the winning plant. Winners are winners, apparently, no matter how poor the produce).

This year I tried again. I carefully planted up 8 little pots, two seeds in each. Only for Storm Dennis to come raging through the country, flooding the nearby river and also drowning my amateur attempts at planting. The soil spilled them everywhere, and I gave up on my sunflower growing ambitions for good.

At the beginning of lockdown Liam planted some sweet pea seeds in the planter, and as they slowly started growing, we noticed a foreign plant growing and overtaking them. It turned out to be a rogue sunflower seed that had taken root from my rain drowned efforts.

And it grew and grew and it blooms, 6 ft 5 inches tall, turning its face to the sun as it stands guard over garden.

This week has been one of the hardest, heart hurting weeks I’ve known in our home for a long time. We knew the return to school would be hard. We did what we could, emailed schools, contacted professionals, put plans in place. But it’s been gut wrenchingly painful to watch three different children facing huge fears. The ones we expected, and then challenges we hadn’t anticipated surprising us and knocking us sideways.

Thursday morning was hard. It must have been bad, because I didn’t even get a photo. Me. Who documents every moment and etches it in my memory (well, the iCloud is a start). And that tricky start was with just one child returning to school.

Yesterday I sat and cried alongside one of the children. Cried at their tears, their hurt, their fears, their ‘why’ questions. Cried because I can’t fix it for them. Cried because I love them so much and I wish I could make it better. I promised that I would fight for them and never stop fighting. I am on their side.

But I couldn’t tell them why they had to face their struggles. I could only promise them that I believe in a God who cries with us too. Because He didn’t want a broken world. But He is the One who loved us so much He made a rescue plan and sent His own Son into the middle of our mess and brokenness. And then He left His helper to walk the road with us. And I promised that I believe this because I’ve known His help in my helplessness. I’ve seen His light in my darkest places. And I promised that you, my child, will never ever be alone.

And then because I felt helpless and especially unwise and wished I didn’t have to be a grown up today, I talked about the sunflower. Because quite honestly I’ve been obsessed by it for the last month. As I’ve sat at the dinner table and watched it grow, it’s exceeded anything I imagined for it.

Because that surprise storm-drowned seed grew and bloomed. And bloomed. And bloomed. It grew the first head, then two more budded. Then more. Long after the first bloom had withered, and despite the storms of last week, it stands strong and tall, and the flowers bud and bloom, day after day. Today I counted it’s tenth bud appearing. All on the same plant. All from the one lost seed.

And I told my child the reason I’m obsessed with the sunflower is because of its journey from tragedy to triumph. It gives me hope that even in our weakest, most hopeless, storm ruined moments, we can be planted. Through no efforts of mine, the seed took root. And through no effort of mine, God can work surprising miracles even in the hardest parts of my life. And that little seed can grow and grow and become more abundant than I could ever have imagined. Because even the tiniest of seeds, planted in the aftermath of the pain, can bloom beyond our expectations.

And I told my child all the ways I see them blooming already.

The metaphor is almost certainly weak, but I feel like there’s a reminder in my garden that God can do surprising things with even the hardest parts of life. This week has been really tough. And I haven’t held it together all the time. I haven’t felt full of faith all the time. I’ve got really angry at a phone call. Been patient for long conversations but been irritated by mud on the stairs. Felt guilty that I’ve let my children down. Been so grateful on one hand for big answers to prayer, whilst on the other being devastated at the brokenness in the world.

And I think the sunflowers encourage me because they played no part in the planting and growing process. They were passive and helpless and yet they have brought joy to the garden for weeks. Sometimes the events we think will be terminal to our hope, are actually moving us to the spot where we are in the best place to grow. Surrendering to the loss can give space for indescribable growth. Maybe He’s moving us to the place where we can look at His face and shine.

To bloom, to grow, to bring joy to the world around us, sometimes comes from riding the waves of time, mistakes, pain, and disappointment. Allowing ourselves to feel it, be broken, and wait. Maybe the way to bloom is to rest amongst the ashes of broken dreams, allowing ourselves to be fed and watered and nurtured, and facing the Son.

I can’t change the world for my children. But I hope I can always be the one who will sit with them in the hurt, arms around them, tears mixed with theirs, not trying to give answers but being there. Listening. Praying. Promising hope. And whittering about the sunflowers.

“The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the LORD, the majesty of our God. Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who have an anxious heart, “Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.” – Isaiah 35:1-4