All of God's Children

A Mother's Day reflection

Yesterday evening I was potting the plants for our deck, which is always a bit of an endeavor. We have a large space, and every year I try to fill it with containers—different pots and planters that become homes for whatever we’re growing that season.

I’ve been picking up plants over the past couple of weekends from local greenhouses, gathering what catches my eye. There are always a few favorites—double petunias, impatiens for the shade, coleus because they’re so hearty and dependable. But there are surprises too. This year I found a spectacular purple-and-green petunia that we think is called Picasso. I’d never seen it before, and I couldn’t go home without it.

So late yesterday afternoon, as I do every year, I gathered everything together—the plants, the pots, the soil—and then I sat down, took it all in, and felt a familiar wave of confusion. Now what? Which plants go in which pots? Which ones belong together? How much soil will I need? Where do I start?

For a few minutes, it all feels overwhelming. And then, just as predictably, I get up and start sorting. These three will go well together. The coleus plants always go in the square copper planters. The double petunias belong in my parents’ pedestal planters.

Some things I know from year to year, and others I figure out as I go. Before long I’m digging in the soil, making a mess, and seeing a plan as it all comes together.

It didn’t hurt that it was a beautiful evening. Bob was working nearby, finishing the stone edging around a flower bed, and Bubble was wandering around, sticking his head out over the edge of the deck so he could track any activity below. The fields behind us were bright green, and the sun was lighting up the redbud trees and the iris that just started to bloom.

One of the reasons I love potting plants is that it’s meditative. You can feel the power in the fragile roots, the sustenance in the soil, and the certainty that these plants are designed to grow and expand. Even the leggy zinnias will crowd their pots before long.

At some point as I worked, I heard this:

All of God’s children are finding their way home.

It floated into my mind, seemingly from nowhere, and it wouldn't go away.

I didn’t know the reason, but there it was. And so it became the focus of my meditation.

I don’t always use the word God. I know it can be a loaded word for people, and I often say Spirit, or Creator, or Divine Love instead. But in this case, God was the word. All of God’s children are finding their way home. So as I kept planting, I found myself thinking about what that really means, and about all the different lives unfolding around me.

I thought about the people Bob and I met yesterday at garage sales in Winterset—people talking about loved ones in the hospital, cruises they’re planning, a grandson with learning disabilities, a silver tea set purchased in California 65 years ago by a woman who was just starting her career. People were eager to share glimpses of their stories about the full range of life’s journey.

All of God’s children.

I thought about a friend who has a brilliant transgender granddaughter who has been bullied, and the love that surrounds her anyway. I thought about my own transgender great-nephew, so creative and sensitive, finding his way in a world that doesn’t always make space easily for that kind of spirit.

All of God’s children.

I thought about the parents who are saying goodbye to children—at any age, for any reason—and how that changes their world, from deep loss to letting go.

All of God’s children.

I thought about the writers I’m working with right now, the memoirists who are putting their lives on the page, writing about trauma, confusion, abuse, incarceration, questions of identity—and the courage it takes to bring those stories into the light.

All of God’s children.

I thought about the small tree frog that made its way onto the deck among the plants, and how I nudged it along so Bubble wouldn’t find it. And I thought about the raccoon who would probably come in the night and dig into some of my freshly planted pots.

All of God’s children.

And even—this is the harder place for me to go—I found myself thinking about our elected officials and the decisions being made that affect every single person on this planet. I thought about the fear that must live underneath those decisions, and the peace that comes in knowing that love is the only antidote to fear.

All of God’s children.

When I finished planting what I could for the day, I stood back and looked at the pots. The robust, fully flowering Picasso. A puny coleus—the runt of the litter in a four-pack of plants. The hot pink geraniums—the showgirls of the plant world—still waiting to be potted. The understudy sweet potato vines that look unassuming now but will grow to six feet or more by next fall.

“Welcome,” I said. (Yes, I really do talk to them.) “I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for the beauty you bring to this place. I hope you thrive. This is a place where you can flourish.”

All of God’s children are finding their way home.

So today, on Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about all of it. The women who had dreams of how we would grow. The places we’ve been planted, the sustenance we’ve received.

There are billions of women on this planet who have given birth to God’s children, delivering us to this magnificent and confounding world, hoping we’ll thrive and flourish.

And thanks to them, every day, we are finding our way home—to love over fear, to understanding over judgment, to peace over conflict.

Home to the sacred within us all.

Happy Mother’s Day.

With blessings,

Deb

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