The Forgotten Seed

In my first year of sobriety, I had all this extra time on my hands. I no longer carried the mental load of figuring out how to balance alcohol and life because alcohol was no longer part of my life. So, I forced myself to try new hobbies. I tried everything—from sticker books to crocheting and even indoor gardening.

It was April. I was three months sober and desperately waiting for spring to arrive. Winter in New England is cold, dreadful, and gray. Being cooped up for months on end while newly sober is like holding your breath underwater. Everything is muffled but loud, and you’re floating while somehow drowning at the same time.

Growing restless with my usual hobbies, I decided to try growing a flower from a seed. Plus, I desperately needed to bring some color into my home.

I never had a green thumb. Sure, I had plenty of plants, but none of them survived longer than six months or so. I usually bought them already grown and ready to be tended to, but this time I wanted to nurture something from just a seed.

During this season of recovery, I felt untethered—in this liminal space of becoming. I was grieving the person I once was while struggling to find the new, alcohol-free me. I wasn’t quite lost, but I wasn’t grounded either. I kept reaching for things that signified meaning, hoping they would convince me there was a purpose for all these uncomfortable feelings.

I felt like I was crawling in my own skin every day, unable to sit still because I was so incredibly bored.

The day would pass, and once dinner time came—also known as the witching hour—my internal clock would go off, begging me to have a drink. Interrupting that pattern of thinking was exhausting. You can only go for so many walks during a New England winter, so finding new hobbies became the norm.

Slowly, I began to learn that boredom was actually peace pushing its way back into my life.

When I arrived at the store, I was thrilled to find an entire section devoted to novice gardeners.

Everything was in one place to make things easy. Into my cart went potting soil, a seed tray, and several packets of seeds. I left excited, eager to get my hands dirty and grow something new.

My daughters and I cleared off the kitchen island and got to work. Dirt everywhere and excited kids are the perfect recipe for chaos, so naturally the seed packets were opened, dumped out, and mixed together.

I vividly remember taking a deep breath before reacting. Scattered seeds are like mixed Play-Doh—they make your eye twitch because they’re supposed to stay separated. You don’t want to end up with one giant blob of muddy brown Play-Doh, do you? And in this case, I definitely didn’t want my basil seeds mixed in with my flower seeds.

Feeling proud of myself for not falling back into my old habit of overreacting to a minor inconvenience, we started filling each pod with different seeds.

As I leaned over the tray, I noticed one tiny seed roll into the narrow crack that separated the rows of pods.

A small amount of dirt fell in with it. The space was too narrow for any of us to reach, so I simply left it there without another thought.

Finally, I watered each tray while my daughters buzzed with excitement over whose flower would be the biggest and whose would sprout first. Tiny toothpicks with their names poked out of each pod so there would be no confusion about who won.

Once we finished our masterpiece, I carried the tray over to the window that received the most sunlight.

Then I sat back and thought, Now what?

That’s the beauty—and sometimes the curse—of my fast-paced brain. It’s always streaming on the channel of, What’s next?

And to make matters worse, this hobby didn’t even offer instant gratification. I had to wait weeks to see anything happen.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t check the trays almost every hour at first. Eventually, though, I realized I had to be patient. Staring at the dirt wasn’t going to make anything grow.

I once heard that talking to plants helps them grow, so every so often I’d walk past the window in my mudroom and whisper, “It’s okay to come out,” or, “Grow, baby, grow.”

Then finally, the day came.

The dirt began to shift, and tiny slivers of green pushed through the darkness.

One by one they emerged. Blake’s first. Then Ava’s. Then Emma’s.

After a few days, the excitement settled into routine. We simply watered them and cared for them while waiting until they were strong enough to transplant into larger pots.

As I carefully moved the flowers into their new homes, something caught my eye.

With all the excitement over the flowers we had planted, we completely missed something miraculous happening behind the scenes.

A tiny sliver of green was emerging from the narrow crack that separated the rows of the seed tray.

The very crack where only one forgotten seed and a small sprinkle of dirt had fallen.

It had made a way.

It was forgotten, but it wasn’t lost.

It used what little it had to create life.

Sometimes we compare ourselves to everyone around us. We watch others grow while wondering why we’ve become stagnant.

Maybe it’s self-inflicted, like my struggle with alcohol. I never intended to become addicted, but when you consume an addictive substance long enough, there’s rarely a good ending.

Maybe it’s fear of the unknown.

Maybe it’s the comfort of staying where it’s familiar.

Whatever it is, it can keep us stuck, preventing us from living to our full potential.

Yet here was this tiny flower, preaching a sermon I didn’t know I needed to hear.

It reminded me that when the time is right, God will make it happen.

He cares for you.

He has never left you.

And He has already given you what you need to bloom.

You are allowed to grow wherever you are.

You don’t need the perfect conditions. You don’t need more dirt. You don’t need to wait until your circumstances improve.

You simply need to trust what God has already given you for where you are right now.

Don’t ever discount what it takes to grow.

Sometimes a little dirt and a little water go a very long way.

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“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” — Isaiah 43:19