Some seasons feel like burial. Nothing visible, nothing measurable, nothing to show for the waiting. During a season of major life change, a backyard experiment taught me a lesson I didn’t know I needed: God does some of his best work in the waiting season.

Wildflowers are a thing of beauty. I love their freedom. They grow without bounds any place a seed happens to land — wild, unkempt, a shocking surprise of color in unexpected places. I wanted to experience that glory in my own yard. So, I decided to plant some seeds.

I tucked the tiny seeds into their bed of soil with a gentle pat, somehow hoping this time would be different. I’m far from an expert gardener. My attempts have usually led to abandoned pots half-filled with dirt and the skeletal remains of would-be tomato plants. But something about those seeds stayed with me.

A thought struck me as the kernels fell through my hands to the ground. How could such a small, hard seed become a tall, tender thing of beauty? What happens within the dark earth that creates this wondrous miracle? 

I needed to know. Because I was living in my own shroud of darkness — and I was starting to wonder the same thing about myself. 

An Unwelcome Guest

Moving to a new town after twenty years, planning a wedding, a graduation — only a few of the changes happening in my life. I thought I was doing well. Then one morning, I didn’t want to get out of bed. Depression had gripped me before. It has a way of returning without announcement.  It just arrives.

Depression is an illness rarely witnessed by the outside world. We paste a smile on our face and go on the same as always, but inside we are anything but the same. The weight of life pulls us farther and farther down. Before we realize it, the darkness has surrounded us, and we don’t see a way out. 

As I pushed those seeds into the dark soil, I reflected on my own struggle. How could those baby seeds survive in that suffocating hole? How could I?

Death Is Necessary For Transformation

As my own private darkness swallowed me, the father of lies whispered in my ear. You are alone, fruitless, forsaken. God has no use for you. 

My whispered prayer sounded so small. Where are you, God? 

Jesus tells us in John 12:24 that unless a seed falls to the ground and dies, it remains alone —dormant, fruitless, forsaken. The hard, outer coating must wither away to make room for growth. Those precious seeds in my backyard were undergoing the necessary process of decay. Without death, they would never see light, never feel the warmth of the sun, never produce fruit.

Paul echoes Jesus’ words in 1 Corinthians 15:36. “That which you sow does not come to life unless it dies” (ESV). Like the seeds, it was necessary for me to discard the outer shell — how I appear to others, what I think I can manage on my own — and begin the painful process of dying to myself (Galatians 2:20). The power to create this change doesn’t exist within me. God alone does the work necessary to raise me from death to life. 

The darkness may seem endless, but without it, transformation is impossible.

When You Think Nothing Is Happening, God Is Still At Work

The seeds in my backyard stayed buried for weeks. A passerby would never know anything had been planted. They would never realize the transformative work being done mere inches below the surface. 

I didn’t recognize it myself. Depression is a selfish disease — it turns every thought inward. When I am focused on my own pain, it becomes impossible to see anything else, much less the quiet work being done in my heart.

What I didn’t know was that beneath the surface, those seeds were doing something I couldn’t see and couldn’t rush. Wildflower seeds require time in the cold and dark before they can germinate. The hard outer shell has to weaken. The cold has to do its work. Without that season of dormancy, the seed never opens. It just stays sealed, intact, and fruitless.

I think about that when I am tempted to demand that God hurry.

A month later, a tender green shoot stood centimeters above the soil. The work done in the darkness was successful. Through the process of time, those insignificant, tiny seeds had sent roots deep into the earth for stability — and broken through the surface for life. 

Once the wildflower seed fell to the ground, it endured the darkness as a place of growth and transformation. Seeds don’t have a will of their own. They can’t say No, God, the soil is too hard! I don’t want to grow! They continue the course. And the result is new life. 

Somewhere in the waiting, something shifted.

The seeds had no choice. I did. And for a long time, I chose to hold on. But God was calling me to release it all. To trust Him with my life. And the moment I let go, light and peace filled my heart.

Cold Temperatures Produce Hearty Plants

Then, the unthinkable happened. South Alabama got its deepest snow fall in years. “Historic,” they called it. “Generational.” It was as deep as ten inches in some places. I was terrified of losing our fledgling plants.

I stood at the window watching the white cover everything I’d worked for and felt the familiar heaviness settling back over me. The darkness doesn’t announce its return. It just arrives.

It is a constant battle. Just when I think I’ve survived and am ready to move on, the darkness comes again to steal away my hope. Daily I have to remind myself that God is still present. Feelings are real, but they’re also really good liars. My feelings tell me I’m a failure, that I’m never going to make it. 

But, my roots go deep. 

I dig down deep into His Word — my life. And when I do, it wells up to remind me: I am His masterpiece (Ephesians 2:10). A work of his own hand formed in the dark. Made for the light. 

When spring came, I walked outside expecting — something. Proof. Evidence. Some sign that the darkness had meant something.

And there they were. Brilliant, wild, unruly flowers pointing their faces straight at the sun.

That’s the fruit of what happens in the dark. Not in spite of it. Because of it.

The wildflower seed is a picture of what God does in seasons of suffering: He uses darkness, cold, and waiting to produce what light and comfort alone never could.

The darkness may come again. The snow may fall. But hope is enough. Because I know that God does amazing things in the dark. 

Is there something you’ve been holding onto that God is asking you to release? Comment below. Your voice might be the word someone else needed today.

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