I Cut These Flowers, Life Keeps Growing, I Do, Too.
I cut these flowers earlier this week and assembled them into a homegrown bouquet of blooms just for me.
I grew every single one of them—somewhere in the garden beds around my yard. With my hands. With my heart. Hope tucked between pruning and patience. I grew them with love.
They weren’t planted in this season, but over years and throughout many seasons. Through early mornings and late nights, through grief and growth, through silence and surrender.
Life kept going. Life keeps going.
Somehow, with grace and mercy…It keeps growing. I do, too.
Every bloom holds a memory—of what was tended, what was lost, what was/is hoped for. There’s such a quiet satisfaction in watching something bloom and grow in your garden, and then bringing it inside.
So much hope in the waiting and joy in the unfurling of every bloom, to place the bouquet on a table, in a jar, in a room where life has unfolded. Where joy and ache have mingled. Where life and the eternal met.
These flowers are more than a bouquet that adorn our home. They are a witness. Proof that slow, faithful work can soften even the hardest seasons.
It’s the hard and holy work of tending the outside—in the soil, in the storms, in the quiet hours—that brings unexpected beauty and peace to the inside. Inside your home. Inside your heart.
“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we shall reap, if we do not give up.”-Galatians 6:9
What we plant with intention, water with tears, and prune with hope often blooms into something that fills our homes…and our hearts.
Growing beauty in our garden watching buds sprout brings healing as life blooms each new season. Each new day. My roses are in their second round of blooming.
It’s not just about the flowers. It’s about the healing they point to. The faith they reflect. The life they bring back in.
I love flowers.
I love the flowers I’ve grown even more. There is redemption and gift in reaping what you sow.
It’s a wild concept, really—how what we tend, tends to bloom. We really do reap what we sow.
Not always right away. Not always in the ways we imagined. But over time, in hidden places, beneath the weight of waiting, grace makes its way to the surface.
God is in the slow work—of growing and blooming, in dry places and in the deluge. He doesn’t rush what needs time. He simply invites us to trust, to keep tending, to believe that something beautiful is still becoming.
God is in the slow work—of growing and blooming, in dry places and in the deluge. He doesn’t rush what needs time.
Heather Lebano
Some blooms come after long winters.
Some only grow because we keep showing up consistently, faithfully, hoping, and believing.
Grief doesn’t cancel growth. It often deepens the roots.
Redemption is the holy mystery where God transforms what feels like an ending into a beginning.
It doesn’t erase the sorrow. But it gives it somewhere to go. It lets something beautiful grow where only ache once/often lived.
“To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.”-Audrey Hepburn
This bouquet isn’t just a collection of flowers. It’s a reminder of resilience. Of love that still grows. Of beauty that can follow sorrow. Of memories—and flowers—rooted in the soil of patience and love. Of a life sown and tended—and still gently unfolding.
Every bloom tells a story. A story of showing up. Of tending through sorrow. Of pruning in faith and planting in love.
Every bloom tells a story. A story of showing up. Of tending through sorrow. Of pruning in faith and planting in love. Every garden holds a prayer—answered not always quickly, but always in God’s time. Some answered quietly. Some are still unfolding.
It’s a new month. New seeds are being planted. New chapters written. New life finding its way.
I’m paying attention.
To what’s blooming.
To what’s still growing.
To what I once only prayed for…and now get to hold.
The garden teaches me that slow growth is still growth. That tending to what’s unseen matters most.
The garden teaches me that slow growth is still growth. That tending to what’s unseen matters most.
heather Lebano
May we keep sowing with patience, even when the ground feels dry.
May we tend gently, even when growth is hidden.
May we trust that what we plant in faith will bloom in its time.
May we not grow weary, but keep showing up—hands in the soil, hearts open to grace.
May we pause to notice what is already blooming, what is still growing, and what we once only prayed for… and now get to hold.
If this spoke to you, I’d love to hear what’s blooming in your life this season.
If you’d like to read more reflections on sowing, tending, blooming, and growing, you can find them [here], [here] and [here] and [here]
If you haven’t heard, I recently began sending out a weekly newsletter called A Few Lovely Things—a gentle roundup of beauty, encouragement, and grace-filled reflections, delivered right to your inbox each week.
If that sounds like something your heart needs, you can subscribe [here].
“Have patience with all things, but chiefly have patience with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections but instantly set about remedying them—every day begin the task anew.”
st francis de sales
