I stop by the window, and I bend down to stare into the long green pot. It has become part of my morning routine, when my sleepy eyes are still only half-open. And my afternoon routine, when I wait for the microwave bell to announce my lunch is ready. And…well, I suppose the “routine” is that I stare into the pot every time I pass it, every time I notice it sitting in front of the tall window beside our bathroom.
At first, I was staring through cling wrap beaded with moisture. I clapped my hands the day I saw a thin green tendril erupting from the soil. I pulled the plastic film away, giving the single sprout room to grow, and hoped it was only the first.
Each day, I look for more. There are over a dozen now. A few sluggish ones pushed up to the sunlight only this morning.
I stare down at them, watching the soil like the tiny clay birds that perch on the pot’s edge. I look at the growing leaves, and the way they lean toward the morning light. I press a finger into the soil’s edge, wondering if they need watering. I look at the ones close together—do they need separated? I run my fingers gently over tiny leaves miraculously supported by thin stems, because I’ve heard this will help them to grow straight and strong. So much attention to watching things grow.
Oh you of little faith—does the Heavenly Gardener not tend to you with even more care? Does He not provide what you need to flourish and grow? Does He not rejoice as He sees you? Are you not even more so under His loving eye?
Are you not worth far more than a sprig of cilantro?