Transformation

Witnessing nature and paying attention to its subtle shifts makes me acutely aware that life is never static. Every passing moment offers an opportunity to notice a miracle. Sometimes we simply need to wander outside.

Over the last two weeks, gray skies and wet, stormy weather have kept most of us indoors. My untended gardens are currently in rebellion, begging for attention. Yesterday, during a dry spell, I wandered out to assess the situation.

Apparently, while I had been away, everyone else had been busy.

The milkweed that graciously took over a generous portion of my garden beds had become an all-you-can-eat buffet. Chunky, marvelous caterpillars, “cats,” as I affectionately call them, were feasting with impressive dedication. Clearly, no one had told them to watch their portions.

I had the privilege of watching several find just the right place to attach themselves and begin the transition into a chrysalis. That transformation is a miracle in itself. Being there to witness it felt like an invitation to pause.

The longer I looked, the more I discovered: tiny eggs, barely visible caterpillars, midsize munchers, and plump cats preparing for their next chapter. Above them, butterflies fluttered from plant to plant, busily laying more eggs. All these stages of life were unfolding in the same patch of garden.

And I had almost stayed inside.

Nearby, an anole lurked, waiting for an opportunity to sample the delicacies. I watched with a mixture of wonder and worry. It’s a marvel that so many butterflies make it to flight.

There was something familiar in that feeling: the desire to protect a process I could witness but not entirely control.

Standing among the milkweed, I began thinking about our own changes and growth. We measure progress by what we can see, yet so much happens quietly, beyond our view. Even when our days feel repetitive or our circumstances keep us close to home, something within us may be changing.

A little more patience. A deeper understanding. A willingness to release what we cannot manage.

The clock keeps moving, certainly. But growth doesn’t always require us to hurry. Sometimes it asks us to be still long enough to recognize what God is doing.

I thought of Daniel (currently studying) and his three friends, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah—better known by their Babylonian names, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Taken from their homeland into the service of King Nebuchadnezzar, they faced a language, culture, and expectations far removed from their own. Surely this was not the future they or their families had imagined.

Yet they continued to turn toward God. They served where they could and stood firm when obedience to a king meant disobedience to Him. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego faced the fiery furnace. Years later, Daniel faced the lions’ den. Their faithfulness did not spare them from danger; God met them there.

What moves me especially is that the three friends did not make their trust dependent on being rescued. They believed God could deliver them, but they would remain faithful even if He did not.

Their example makes me consider how God is changing my response to circumstances I would never have chosen.

My first instinct is usually to find the way out, restore the familiar, or ask how soon things can return to normal. Yet some of the deepest changes in my life have taken place in circumstances I would never have chosen.

Looking back, I can recognize moments of protection, unexpected help, and strength I didn’t know I possessed. I can also see seasons when the answer was slower, and the work within me harder to recognize.

Eventually, curiosity begins to replace some of the worry.

Hey, God, is that You?

Are You teaching me something here? Is there someone I can encourage along the way? Is something growing in me that I cannot yet see?

In the asking, I find myself drawing closer to Him, discovering a deeper faith and a relationship that grows as I learn to trust. He is the One I can always rely on for comfort, even when nothing around me feels certain.

He allows me to walk through every part of life; the beautiful, the ordinary, and the painful, and within each, there is an opportunity to experience, discover, and draw nearer to Him. He may not rescue me from every hardship, but I can trust that He is by my side through it.

I believe He will never let me down. That doesn’t mean life will unfold as I hope or that I will understand every sorrow. It means His love and faithfulness will hold, even when my own strength falters. He has a glorious plan, and He sees the big picture when I can barely see the next step.

Over time, I’ve grown more confident in trusting where He leads me. I still worry. I still reach for answers. But I am learning to reach for Him first.

Perhaps that is part of my own transformation: allowing Him to help me tend the garden of my life. Together, we pull the weeds of bitterness and fear before they take over. He shows me where to plant kindness, patience, and hope, and helps me recognize the habits that quietly damage what is growing. Some days there is pruning to do. Other days, my work is to nurture what He has already planted and wait.

And yes, occasionally I need reminding that I am not in charge of the weather.

I want to keep growing a faith that reaches for Him in difficulty, gives thanks in joy, and follows Him all the days of my life.

I don’t always understand how His purposes unfold. But the garden reminds me to pay attention.

An acorn settles into the soil and sends up a tender shoot. Nearby stands a towering oak that began much the same way a hundred years ago. A caterpillar feeds on milkweed while a butterfly moves overhead. There is life at every stage, each worth noticing.

I went outside thinking the garden needed my attention.

It turned out I needed its reminder.

Even after two weeks of gray skies, life had been quietly unfolding. And in the places where I feel stalled or uncertain, I can trust that God is still at work in me, too.