Last week, we talked about how spring always follows winter. That even when everything feels quiet and still, something is happening beneath the surface. But this week, I’ve been thinking about something a little different…

What actually makes something grow once it’s been planted?

As I said last week, here in Texas, we see it every year with the bluebonnets. The seeds are scattered along the roadsides, covered over naturally with just enough soil to stay in place. There’s no big process. They’re just… there. Planted. Waiting. But not every year brings the same kind of bloom. And it’s not because the seeds weren’t there.

It’s because of what happened after they were planted.

Bluebonnet seeds have a hard outer shell. And unless there’s enough rain—enough moisture over time—that shell doesn’t soften. The seed is still there, but it doesn’t open. It doesn’t grow. So in years when the rain is scarce, the blooms are too.

I’ve been thinking about that this week… probably more than usual.

This week has been one of those reminders for me—of how easy it is to expect growth without really tending what’s already been placed in my life. Because it’s easy for me to assume that if something has been planted, it should just grow. That once I’ve had an insight, or felt a shift, or sensed God doing something in me… that’s enough. But that hasn’t really been my experience.

Because God does plant things in us.

Truth. Healing. New ways of thinking. Small shifts we may not even register at first. But what I’m learning—still learning—is that those things don’t grow on their own. Not because God didn’t do His part… but because growth needs something.

It needs to be tended.

In the natural world, growth depends on nutrients—water, sunlight, the condition of the soil. And in our lives, it’s not all that different. There are things that help what God has planted in us begin to open and take root.

Sometimes it looks like prayer.

Not in a formal way, just… staying connected. Talking to God in the middle of the day instead of carrying everything around in my own head. I’ve found that when I do that, things don’t feel quite as tight inside.

Sometimes it looks like community.

Letting someone in. Being honest. Not isolating quite as much as I’m tempted to. I don’t always want to do that—but I can see the difference it makes.

Sometimes it looks like obedience.

Just doing the small thing I already know to do. Not overthinking it. Not waiting until I feel ready. Just taking the step that’s in front of me.

And sometimes… it looks like the hard stuff.

The seasons I wouldn’t choose. The pressure, the discomfort, the stretching. I don’t like that part. I still don’t. But I can look back now and see that some of the most meaningful growth in my life came through those exact seasons.

And then there’s something I tend to overlook if I’m not paying attention…

Gratitude.

Not in a forced way. Just choosing to focus on what’s already there instead of only what’s missing. That shift alone can change how everything feels.

When I think about the bluebonnets, I keep coming back to this:

The seed being planted is not the end of the story. It’s the beginning and what happens next matters. So maybe this week isn’t about trying to fix everything.

Maybe it’s just about asking…

What has God already planted in me? And what would it look like to care for that—just a little more intentionally?

Not forcing growth.
Not rushing the process.

Just tending what’s already there.

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