I hate to admit this, but I almost killed my orchid—the flower that had such profound influence on my healing. Water had collected in the bottom of the pot. A fateful mistake. By the time I realized what happened only two scraggly roots hung on and the leaves were wrinkled and limp. I suppose someone else would have thrown it away, but that was not an option. I’d be crushed to lose this little plant.
I fixed the pot so it would drain properly and put the orchid back in with new bark. A few weeks later two healthy leaves appeared along with several new roots. It’s on the mend.
Last week I returned home from my first trip out of the States. I saw things I’ve never seen before. England and Wales have history’s with a depth I’ve never experienced being born in a country only 240 years old.
I met family members my husband has been close to since he was a child. And I loved them all. We were served traditional English food like coronation chicken, toasties, and trifle for which I promptly searched the internet to find recipes. The church down the street from my husband’s aunt’s house was built around the year 1200. A building which was part of their daily life was like a museum to me.
People travel from all over the world to see historical sights such as Stonehenge, Windsor Castle, the streets of London with Big Ben, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the Courts of Justice. These places are time-honored. They mean something because people revere their history. You can feel the presence of hearts and hands that have labored to create their stories. It’s the same reverence I hold for my orchid and why I can’t let it die. It tells the history of my faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Notwithstanding all the wonderful sights and experiences, when I stepped off the plane in London I lost my sense of self. I’m such a homebody. I get a lot of anxiety when I’m suddenly thrown into a new environment. So it makes perfect sense that going to church was the highlight of my trip. It’s a place that always feels like home.
Sunday morning my husband and I left early with the kids to get to church on time. The main roads were closed so we took a narrow road through the green Welsh hills spotted with white sheep. It reminded me of Alaska. Not that the landscape looked like Alaska, but it had the same magnificent draw.
We finally found the Blackwood Ward after stopping to ask for directions. We walked into the chapel and found seats. It felt so good to have a place to go home when I was 5,000 miles from home. The people there had the same Christlike love in their eyes that can be seen in any saint.
No matter where I’m at, physically or emotionally, feeling the Spirit is like coming home. It’s a voice from a familiar place. A call from a loving father in heaven to repent and come to Him. It’s experiencing a piece of heaven. Without the gospel of Jesus Christ I would truly be lost. I believe because it is my refuge from the storm. Because it’s where I discover myself.
Some may say it’s just a plant, or just a building, or it’s blind faith. That opinion may have a grain of truth. People choose to give things power. But I know it is right when the same things give me access to God’s power. I feel reverence when I see my orchid sitting on the windowsill. I feel appreciation for the history built into the walls of St. George’s Chapel. I feel peace because I know my place is in God’s house.