I’ve always loved the beauty of plants. But as much as I tried, it seemed impossible to keep more than one or two of my plants alive at the same time. For the longest time, I believed I had a brown thumb and that the plant gene skipped a generation. My grandma, Inez, always had beautiful plants with colorful blooms in her yard and bushes of sweet-smelling honeysuckle along the road leading up to her yard in Alabama. My mom, who claimed to be a plant novice, had plants in the living room and the family room. Outdoors, there was a rose bush in the backyard that bloomed every spring, tulips in the front yard, and she always planted a small vegetable garden near the garage. I was amazed at my mom’s green thumb and people who had enough plants to create a small ecosystem in their home. I assumed some people were just born more gifted than others.

It wasn’t until 2020 that I became more intentional about my desire to care for plants. During the spring of that year, like many others trapped indoors, I planted a small garden on my terrace. I grew tomatoes, strawberries, herbs, and bell peppers. As I researched soils, sunlight, and seeds, I also learned from other gardeners, that even the lushest of gardens suffer from brown leaves, pests, and root rot. Even those who seemed to have an innate ability for all things green, sometimes struggled maintaining a “perfect” plant. It’s all a part of the journey. When I began journaling about my plant experiences, I figured I would share my thoughts with other wannabe plant moms and dads. There were lessons about soil and growing mediums, proper lighting, frequency of watering, fertilizing and humidity. Not every plant thrives in the same store-bought soil. Not every plant thrives in bright sunlight, some prefer shaded areas. Some of my plants don’t even grow in soil. The more I thought that my lessons about plants would give hope to others, the more I realized the parallel between fauna and faith. Not only was I satisfying my desire to bring nature indoors and decorate my fireplace mantle with living things instead of baubles from Crate & Barrel, but I also discovered that the steps I took to care for plants were not unlike the effort needed to cultivate healing.

What I didn’t mention previously is that my mother passed away in March of 2019. It was cancer. It was the worst loss I have ever experienced, and I had 2 miscarriages while she was alive. A year after her passing, when I began bringing plant after plant into my home, I didn’t realize I was still healing from the passing of my mom. In those few, quiet moments between being a band mom, working full-time at a large church, and studying for my seminary courses, I realized how much I loved watching my plants grow, even while swatting fungus gnats out of my face. Sometimes, I would catch myself gazing at the many curly fronds of my Ponytail Palm or how my Golden Pothos is almost touching the floor. I don’t know if it was the colors of the leaves, the way the sunlight made them glow or the anticipation of watching a new leaf unfurl. I was entranced at the peace in those moments and often lost myself in them. There is much I learned about life while trying to keep my plants alive. But if you talk to a plant lover long enough, eventually the topic of death will come up. My plant journey went beyond basic elements to help plants thrive (soil, sunlight, water, and food); I’m talking about lessons in patience, disappointment, and acceptance.

No matter what kind of plant you have, without good, healthy roots, most plants don’t stand a chance. Plant people, don’t come at me! I know there are exceptions, like air plants that technically don’t have roots and don’t need soil. But like all plants, they do have a system that allows them to take in nutrients needed to thrive. Whether the roots are thin or thick, they must be good, strong, and healthy for the plant to thrive.

When my mom died from cancer, I believe it was because of deep, unseen, healthy roots, fed with love, hope and faith, that helped me to survive. While grieving, had I been a plant, my leaves, at least for a time, would have appeared brown and withered, as if I had been moved to a dark corner of the room that received no sunlight. My shift to a plant lover gave me the nourishment I needed to grow out of grief. Taking care of plants allowed me to focus my energy on something that needed my help to survive instead of the circumstances that made me wither. Plants also taught me that no matter what I did or how much control I thought I had leaves still fell off and sometimes plants died. If a plant seemed like it wasn’t growing where it was placed, plant-life taught me to move it to another location. Someone said that we are just complicated plants. I found this to be true. Because like dying plants, those of us grieving instinctively lean toward light.