This life from death is everywhere. I’m constantly being reminded of it.

In April I planted flowers as I do every year. I always have great intentions, but my husband is usually the one who ends up taking care of them. Instead of having a green thumb, mine is brownish-black.

This year, I bought two lilies and planted them in large pots, then set them on either side of my front door. They were large and pink and beautiful. And they lived for all of about three weeks. That’s when the blooms started falling off, and the green leaves started turning brown.

We set the lilies closer to the edge of the porch, hoping they’d catch sun and rain. They’ve been there for weeks now, a little green and a little brown. And, honestly, I’ve been waiting on them to die.

As I walked by the front door this morning, something pink caught my eye. There was a flower in that lily pot. I went to inspect, and discovered that it wasn’t a lily. I snapped a picture and texted it to my mother-in-law , asking her what find of flower it was. She responded that it was a petunia, and asked if I planted some in that pot last year. I responded that I may have. I can’t say for sure. She said they must’ve come back up.

Upon further inspection of the pot, I discovered that while the top of the lily was brown, there were new blooms at the base of the plant. Little, bright green leaves bursting through blackish buds.

New life from what I thought to be dead.

An unexpected, little gift of a pink flower rising through the dirt in what looked to me like a pot of death.

And the offering of hope that what was planted, abandoned, and seems dead can come back new and better.