Life's relationships, it seems, are similar to a garden. When we approach people with the appreciation we approach our "garden friends," their response is a reward of mutual appreciation.
However, sometimes we misstep in a garden (or a relationship), unintentionally trampling a tender being and preventing that one from producing to their full potential. It seems to me it is always the most fragile, most exotic, and most favorite that I have damaged in my wayward act.
Sometimes the damage is done when we are ridding our "gardens" of debris and weeds that we feel would hinder their growth or detract from the garden's beauty. We unintentionally destroy some of the good along with the bad.
Gardens are sometimes forgiving. I recall once receiving a five-gallon bucket half filled with iris corms that needed to be planted - a gift when I arrived in a new home from a new neighbor who had thinned her irises and was eager to help me get my landscaping underway. Busyness and distractions took over, however, and I let the corms sit for many long months without attention (much like we sometimes do to our friends) until, finally, almost a year had passed when I re-discovered the neglected treasures. I raced to plant every one and then anxiously waited for the following spring to learn whether any had survived.
When we realize we've neglected our relationships and then try to re-establish them with a call, a card, or a long overdue knock on the door, the wait for a reply seems an eternity. We long to see the the face of the one we have neglected just as I longed to see the green shoots of the iris blades emerge through the hard clay soil in which I planted them with such regret over my delay.
Spring did arrive, of course, and I began to inspect the ground like we would watch the mailbox, wait for a return phone call, or await the sound of footsteps to the door. One, then three, then five more, and on it went until I lost count at over 100 irises emerged that year! They forgave my neglect! I had attended to their needs before it was too late.
The trampled "friends" in my garden have not been so forgiving. After all, even though it was unintentional, the damage was far greater. However, with my irises, there were some that emerged the following spring after a time of rest - blanketed by the soil, warmed by the sun, and fed by the rain. They emerged to say, "I really do want to be. I really do want to share a life with you. I forgive you, but I'll need your care and protection from your carelessness in order to become strong again." These were usually those fragile, exotic and most cherished of the friends - the ones that had given me the most pleasure and who I mourned the most.
I was thankful for them all the more when I recalled the ones that did not return. For them I mourned as well, but I have had to learn to live beyond the grief. For them I am thankful, for in their loss, I have become more forgiving of others.
