The beauty of the great outdoors is that transplanting is not necessary.  After all, those beautiful flowers in my perennial garden can stay in the same spot forever.  The sun rises and sets, the rains come and go (the sprinkler system helps too), and the cycle of life takes care of the fertilization.

Darn those indoor plants. They need so much care!

• I have to water them
• I have to place them where they get enough sun or very little sun – depending on the plants’ needs.
• I have to trim away the dead leaves or branches
• I have to fertilize because the soil gets depleted
• I even have to turn the pots so the plant will grow evenly.
• And when I decide my plants have lived on death row long enough – I have to transplant them; break up their root bound foundation and add in new enriched soil usually in a bigger pot.

Houseplants are high-maintenance!

Though I like to think I am low maintenance like my perennial garden, the simple truth is I am a high-maintenance creation. 

Maybe I’ve graduated from the When Harry Met Sally diagnoses:

Cover of When Harry Met Sally

Harry:  “There are two kinds of women out there.  Low maintenance or high maintenance.”

Sally: “Oh really? Which one am I?”

Harry: “You’re the worst kind.  You think you’re low-maintenance but you’re really high-maintenance!”

At least I know I am high-maintenance!

But maybe that was God’s original plan anyway?

I was thought of and created in God’s presence, then sent to this world.  I got transplanted – moved from a perennial garden to the limitations of the houseplant.

I now live in a place of high-maintenance requiring constant care from my Father.

So let’s just say it out loud – Thank the Lord (literally) he is better with houseplants than I am!

He waters regularly, gently removes the dead leaves and turns me to face the son.  But it’s the transplanting to a new pot that feels horrendous even though it is for my best.

I guess I don’t really know when I get bound up in my own roots, when the soil I live in no longer offers me good nutrition.  Though he is as gentle as possible, it is still traumatic.

He lifts me out, tears my roots apart and places me in new soil in a bigger pot.  Though the transplanting process last a short time, it takes a while for roots to take hold in a new environment.

I think I’ve just survived my most recent transplanting. 

The digging up of past abuses has to be at the top of my list for most traumatic years in my life, but now I understand the process a little better. 

I can trust the gardener’s hands, I know his heart, and I am oh so grateful for new soil. 

Transplanted by Grace