---
In the stillness of the night, a seed buried deep within the mud begins its journey. Surrounded by darkness and engulfed in a seemingly endless struggle, it fights to break free, to reach the light. This seed, much like us, carries the promise of transformation and renewal. It is the story of a late bloomer, a testament to the power of healing through faith.
I was blooming beautifully, feeling like life was finally falling into place, and then I lost my 2-year-old daughter. I watched her take her last breath, and it felt like I took mine too. In that moment, everything stopped. The light I had fought so hard to reach seemed to vanish, leaving me in a darkness deeper than I had ever known. I was so numb after that, I couldn’t think straight for a while. I was a shell of a person, going through the motions but feeling nothing inside.
The day after her funeral, it snowed heavily. I went into a panic. All I could think about was that my baby was cold. She was cold and alone, and I couldn’t get to her. I began pacing, my mind jumping from the harsh reality that she was gone to the desperate delusion that she wasn’t. My chest tightened as panic took over, and I couldn’t breathe. I kept pacing, the walls closing in on me, until finally, I crawled between the sofa and the chair, curling into a fetal position. My mind knew she was dead, but my heart refused to believe it. I lay there, begging God to please bring her back, pleading for something I knew was impossible, yet I couldn’t stop. The weight of grief was crushing, and I didn’t know how to carry it.
Grief consumed me, and I questioned everything. How could I continue to grow when the very thing that brought me joy and purpose was gone? I felt like the seed buried in the mud, only this time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to reach for the light anymore. The pain was too great, the loss too overwhelming. My faith, which had always been my anchor, now felt distant and unreachable.
But even in that darkness, God was there, though I couldn’t feel Him at the time. He was there, nurturing me in ways I didn’t understand, holding me up when I didn’t have the strength to stand on my own. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and slowly, very slowly, the numbness began to fade. I started to feel again, to think again, to pray again.
I realized that while my daughter’s physical presence was gone, the love we shared, the memories we created, and the impact she had on my life were still very much alive. God hadn’t abandoned me; He was guiding me through the pain, helping me to bloom in a new way. I wasn’t the same person I was before—how could I be? But I began to understand that blooming doesn’t always look the way we expect. Sometimes it’s not about thriving in the sunlight but about finding the strength to push through the darkest of nights.
In time, I started to see glimpses of the light again. It wasn’t a sudden transformation, but rather a gradual awakening, like a seed slowly pushing through the mud. My faith began to heal, and with it, my heart. I learned that it’s okay to be a late bloomer, to take your time, to struggle and fight through the darkness. Because in that struggle, God is at work, creating something beautiful, something resilient, something that can only be born out of deep, deep pain.
These days, I am experiencing a new kind of blossoming, distinct but exquisite. My narrative stands as evidence of the transformative power of divine healing, demonstrating that even in moments of stagnation, God is actively present. His guidance and care enable us to flourish precisely when the time is right.
Comments