It’s happening again: God is blowing me away with the beauty of spring.

I’ve been watching the magnolia tree outside my bedroom window for weeks as its buds have emerged and grown. It’s thrilling to be right on the cusp of the unfolding, but to not know exactly when the change will be visible.

Today was that day after weeks of slow, hidden growth and months of yet another harsh midwest winter. A long season of brown and grey lead to a magical explosion of white and pink color on what we once feared was dead. I imagine it takes some courage and vulnerability for the first bright flowers to show themselves against a backdrop of dark and drab. I wonder if the first bloom starts a chain reaction that encourages all the other buds to open up. The first flowers appear at the top, as if the other buds look up to them, and follow their lead. And yet, each flower blossoms at its own pace with its own intricate beauty.

Aren’t we also made to open up? Doesn’t it take courage to unfold into our unique bloom? Could one person opening up spark a chain reaction of beauty?

Like trees, we go through seasons where we don’t produce fruit and don’t feel beautiful. But can you imagine the loss of a healthy tree being cut down simply because someone didn’t know it would bloom again, come spring? I’ve found that dark, slow seasons where outwardly I don’t have much to offer, have actually brought the most internal growth. It’s in the hidden, quiet seasons that our roots sink deeper and grow wider. That we get a little taller, wiser, and stronger. Like the season of Lent we are emerging from, winter seasons allow us to huddle down and look inward, waiting expectantly for Eastertide when we are called forth to new life.

I often pray with garden imagery, imagining my heart as fertile ground that the Lord is tenderly cultivating. If he calls the earth to bloom with such intricacy, how much more will he unfurl beauty within his children?

Through the still, small voice of the Spirit, and the gentle encouragement of people who love me best, this spring I have heard the invitation to open up. I am responding to the call to unfold into my bloom, and reveal the richness of color and beauty that has been cultivated in my seasons of waiting. If I rejoice when the magnolia tree is in full bloom, I would hate for some of its branches to decide they’re not good enough to be seen. In the same way, I am challenged to not compare my color or shape to those around me, but to trust the Lord has cultivated beauty within that is meant to be shared. The unfolding is a vulnerable process! It necessitates being seen and celebrated in a new way, and there’s no turning back once you’ve opened up.

I remember running to different patches of daffodils as a kid in the backyard and prying them open. I proudly told my parents I was “blooming the flowers!” My dad later confessed he wanted to correct me, but saw that I intrinsically knew flowers are meant to open. The problem is they need time in order to unfold at their own pace. I don’t provide the growth or choose the proper timing; I just observe and celebrate it. And when the conditions are right—after the cold recedes, the rain has soaked the ground, and the sunshine returns—the earth can’t help but explode in bloom.

I find the beauty of flowers particularly compelling because they are totally unnecessary. The Lord didn’t have to make trees flower before they produce leaves, or invite various colors and shapes of delicate petals to emerge from the ground. It’s as if the earth must but burst with color at the sheer gift and power of new life each spring. I recently experienced the joy of spring’s full bloom at the Duke Gardens in North Carolina. There were benches scattered all around the gardens which seemed to be inviting visitors: “come, sit, rest, and notice.” Why are there benches, except to sit and notice beauty?

Humans long to celebrate beauty and life, though it isn’t productive to stop and notice. We like to eat the fruit without pausing to observe the process and remember how we got here. It was exciting to catch the tail end of spring in North Carolina, and it filled me with hope for what the Chicago suburbs will be soon. But I’m grateful to walk through this season day by day and get to witness the unfolding. Eventually, we’ll look back and see the full change. In the meantime, cultivating a garden, and cultivating our hearts, takes intentionality, care, and much effort that goes unnoticed. Growth happens in the hidden, mundane, daily life that we miss in our rush to get to the final destination.

Spring reminds me that just as the earth will come alive after the winter, year after year, my heart can also experience new life. There is no limit to the number of seasons and times I can unfold into my bloom. When it’s time for me to open up, that part of me is forever on display, and a million new and beautiful parts of me are yet to emerge. The Lord never tires of delighting us, or growing us. He isn’t in a hurry to see us bloom overnight; his invitation is slow and gentle. His gaze is ever loving and encouraging, and he calls us, his creation, “very good.”

Your current season might not line up with the unfolding of spring this year. Your heart might feel like a seed: stuck, buried, or drowned in rain. Maybe the ground of your heart is being torn up and weeded, or simply barren, waiting for any sign of life to emerge. Take heart: these are necessary steps in the process. Let the warmth of the Son’s love tenderly nurture and restore to life the broken and dry places within you. Receive the hiddenness and rain as a gift, and let spring stir you to hope again.

If you’re like me, fear has kept you from fully blooming, and has convinced you to hide your beauty. Here’s my gentle invitation to you: stop and smell the roses. Let the beauty of nature fill you with hope and joy. Pause and and notice the ways you have grown since this time last year. Name and celebrate baby steps of growth. Let go of control and your expectations of where and who you should be. Pray for eyes to see your unique beauty within, and explode into your bloom.