Mommy Blog

The Fire Poppy

in Thoughtful Thursdays on September 21, 2022

Many of you know that I am a Harry Potter super fan. With that said, a better title of this post could have been, The Phoenix.

Phoenix birds are mythological in origins, live hundreds of years, burst into flames at the end of their lives, and are then reborn from those flames. While all of those characteristics embody the gist of this post, I wanted something a little more concrete—real.

That leaves me with The Fire Poppy.

The fire poppy is an indigenous flower to California. Its seeds lay dormant for years…even decades before flowering. Even after laying dormant for so long, one would think their blooms would hang around for a while; unfortunately, though their blooms only last a day or two. The flowers then retreat back into a deep sleep beneath the safety and shadows of the soil.

How do they know when to bloom?

They bloom when the world around them literally goes up in flames and burns itself out, until all that remains is the smoking and charred earth. At that point, a black, barren and lifeless landscape awakens to brilliant orange, red, and deep-brick-red colored poppies.

Even though the flora of California can be fascinating at times, that is not the main take-away from today’s post.

I want to talk about YOUR fires. MY fires. All of the trials we walk through that make us think there will not be away through or out of the blaze. The flames will consume us, and we, as mere mortals, will not be reborn from the flames like the magical Phoenix…or the beautiful poppy.

It is no secret that we are living in exceptional times…I don’t mean exceptionally fun times, either. The last few years have most definitely received a ONE-STAR YELP RATING from me. I imagine most of you feel the same way.

I have held the hands of dear friends who were experiencing loss on unbelievable scales. I have prayed holes in the floor of heaven with others, begging for miracles that didn’t happen the way we’d hoped. And I’ve received news of tragic circumstances that I would not wish on my enemies.

I’m reminded of another trial, a loss on a seemingly unbelievable scale, a tragic circumstance, and a miracle with an unexpected ending.

Think about: The Cross.

The Roman cross was used and perfected in executions for roughly 500 years. This was a most effective means of public torture and humiliation. The Roman leaders wanted and needed complete and total control over a large population; what better way to achieve this goal, than by advancing and developing terrifying ways to permanently subdue societal offenders?

Enter the Cross; an ever-evolving vehicle for executions.

Roman crucifixions were meant to be public. The officials wanted people from every area of the town and countryside to witness the fate of the guilty. This was meant as a deterrent.

Crucifixions were meant to be unquestionably humiliating. The criminal oftentimes hanging for days, half-naked or completely naked, beaten and condemned. Insults from passers-by were encouraged. Hurling objects at the transgressors were not uncommon. The family of the damned would almost assuredly be near enough by to see, hear and smell the inhumanity.

Crucifixions were meant to be final.

No one, absolutely no one got off of a Roman cross alive.

Not even Jesus.

His mother stood at the foot her Son’s Cross, and watched helplessly, as His beaten and already broken body was stretched and pulled from sockets and joints in order to be nailed to the tree. His friends, the few that did not scatter in fear for their own lives, stood silently watching—all the while wondering how something like this could be happening. There was confusion rippling out in all directions.

Where was the miracle?

Jesus walked on water. He healed the sick, the lame, the deaf. He cast out demons and raised people from the dead.

Where, then, was His own miracle?

Pause for a moment.

Where are you right now?

Do you feel as though the Romans have you cornered? Are you frantically looking for a way out, while seeing your own cross from the corner of your eye?

What does your trial look like? Is it a cancer diagnosis? Is it a gravely ill child? Have you lost a child? Are the wolves knocking on your door, and surrounding your house? Is your marriage in trouble?

All of these things, and so many more, have the power to burn, scorch, and straight-up incinerate your life. They all can leave us wondering: “WHERE IS MY MIRACLE?”

I’m certain that Mary, Jesus’ mother, thought the same thing…especially after His lifeless body was removed from the Cross, laid in a tomb, watched as the tomb was sealed, and a virtual battalion of Roman soldiers were ordered to stand guard. Where was her Son’s miracle?

Did you know that some fire poppies lay buried deep in the soil for sixty-plus years?? Their germination triggers only activate under the most extreme of circumstances…such as a raging inferno above them. As the land around them is reduced to desolation, from the smoke and cinders come something beautiful and unexpected. And, in the fullness of time, the poppies bloom as a type of reminder, that even through the worst flames—all is never completely lost.

The same holds true for us.

And…for the JOY—the BEAUTY set before Jesus in the aftermath of the trial and FIRE of the Cross (paraphrasing Hebrews 12:2) He walked out of that sealed and guarded tomb ALIVE!

HE is the ultimate fire poppy. The empty tomb is the reminder that yes, we will have trouble. Yes, we will have trials. Yes, we will feel as though our entire bodies are burning…BUT…that is not the end. The blooms of New Life will come.

If the ground around you is charred and smoking today, please wait before you totally give in to despair. Look around, the poppies are coming.