For all intents and purposes, the pots on my deck are planted. As usual, there are a few iffy specimens. One’s little more than a stick with wee buds at the top; one’s looking especially droopy around the edges. It does not bode well, my friends. And yet, I can’t help but give them a chance. I take them out of their plastic containers, give their roots a gentle squeeze, and tuck them into the potting soil, right alongside healthier fellows . . . hoping, perhaps, they’ll encourage one another–that they’ll help each other through.
I’m not sure why I love the underdog so, but I do.
Perhaps it’s because I can relate–there’s a lot I hope to accomplish in my life, and I’m the least bit qualified.
Perhaps it’s because I know God never gives up on us–no matter how weak and straggly, no matter how many others have long ago abandoned ship.
Perhaps it’s because, despite all odds, miracles do blossom every now and again . . . and I like to leave room for them to bloom, right in my backyard.