My wife is a recently tired minister. Before she retired she had two churches, one in town and one in the country. The one in town was feeding people, lots of people (over a hundred a day) from the community. All they had to do was show up in the morning and they were served a hot drink and a healthy breakfast. There was always more to to do to keep this program going than seemed humanly possible, so everyone who helped make it successful was stretched to the limit.

Two years ago, a few days after Christmas, my wife came home with two big garbage bags stowed in the back of the car that were filled with poinsettias, some still in those dark green plastic pots and some loose with their roots exposed, all in a jumble. She said that she rescued them from the dumpster. Apparently after the Christmas service, the fate of all the poinsettias that were enlisted to radiate the spirit of Christmas in the sanctuary, depended on people taking them home, but only a few were rescued. The rest were sentenced to the landfill (our euphemism for the dump). Shirley thought they deserved better and she knew that I would agree. I spread a tarp on the floor in the living room and emptied the garbage bags onto the floor. They reminded me of 25 Death Row inmates who had received clemency out of the blue. For the next hour I repotted all of them, watering them and finding spots for them on window sills and by the sliding door.

Some died within a few weeks, others a couple months. Some lasted until the Spring. About half produced a few bright red leaves before they faded, which made us happy. But two kept going and one, in particular, thrived. I'm looking at it now, two years later. It is bright red and has quadrupled its size. Once it perked up, it never looked back, as if reborn. Sometimes I ask myself, why this one? (There is another one that is also doing well, after over a year of touch and go.)

I guess there is no perfect answer. I just have to chalk it up to the mystery of life . . . and love?