Life Between Blooms
Reflections on quiet growth, unseen fruit, and the grace of waiting
This reflection was originally published on Medium under the “Even Here” publication.
Read it there → Even Here
In the corner of our living room, by the window, sits a peace lily. It’s not flashy — its leaves aren’t variegated, its flowers aren’t showy. In fact, right now, it isn’t flowering at all. But it’s thriving in its own quiet way — its dark green leaves stretch upward in gentle layers, as if in slow, persistent prayer. And I find myself strangely drawn to it.
In time, I’ve come to see the peace lily as more than just a houseplant. It has become a symbol of the in-between I so often find myself in — not quite barren, not yet in bloom; not in crisis, but not in clarity. It grows in low light, like I do. And honestly, I think it hates the limelight just as much as I do. It flourishes in shade, asks for little, and needs to be watered regularly or it begins to droop. Not dramatically. Just enough to whisper, “I’m still here. Please don’t forget me.”
And maybe that’s what the in-between feels like too: not a grand declaration, but a quiet whisper for attention. A life that longs to be seen and sustained.
🌱 A Plant That Doesn’t Perform
There’s something sacred about the peace lily’s refusal to perform. Mine hasn’t bloomed in a while, despite the recent fertilizer I added in hope. But its leaves are full and vibrant — proof that life is present, even if flowers aren’t.
And still, it remains — rooted, alive, growing in ways I can’t always see.
In that way, it speaks to my own spiritual posture. I’m learning that just because the fruit isn’t obvious at first glance doesn’t mean it isn’t there— and that faithfulness isn’t something you can always measure from the outside. The in-between has taught me to value hidden growth, slow transformation, and the quiet work of grace in unseen places.
The peace lily becomes metaphor here: not just a plant in the corner, but a picture of my soul. One that stretches toward God with trembling leaves. One that isn’t blooming right now, but is very much alive. One that waits.
🌒 The Gift of Withering
When the peace lily begins to wilt, it doesn’t mean it’s dying. It means it needs to be tended. A little water, and within hours, its posture changes — upright again, full of life.
I have days when I feel myself withering, too. Days when hope feels thin, when prayers feel dry, when I wonder if anything is really growing at all. But I’m learning that drooping doesn’t mean failing. It just means I need to be watered — by Scripture, by rest, by honest conversation, or simply by sitting still in God’s presence, even when I don’t hear anything back.
🌸 Consider the Lilies
Jesus once said, “Consider the lilies, how they grow…” (Luke 12:27). Not how they strive. Not how they prove themselves. Just… how they grow.
I wonder if He meant for us to look not only at wild lilies in the field, but also the hidden ones — those quietly blooming in the corners of kitchens, in the living rooms of those waiting, in the hearts of those who are still holding on.
The peace lily is not just a symbol of peace. For me, it’s a sign that peace can live in the shadows. That growth is still growth, even when it’s not visible. And that perhaps the in-between is not a pause in the spiritual life — but part of its very rhythm.
🕊 A Quiet Benediction
The peace lily doesn’t chase the sun. It simply turns toward what light is given.
And maybe, even here, that is enough.
Reflection Question
What in your life is quietly growing right now, even if it’s unseen?
And what light might you already have — right where you are?