My friends lost their home when a tornado carved through their neighborhood. There’s a lonely pine tree still standing in the side yard beside where the house used to be. The deep pit of dirt that was their basement is now laid bare, exposed under the Tennessee sky.

Workers have dug an outline around the edges of a new house that will soon rise where the old house once stood. Over the past few months, as my friends have gotten the architectural plans together, rogue clusters of wildflowers have grown up all around. Purple, white, and green shoots bursting from wind-blown seeds have taken up residence in the basement soil that had long been in darkness.

There’s comfort in seeing these wildflowers grow where a home has become a memory. New life still blooms amid uncertainty, even when we don’t fully understand what’s happening to us. Wildflowers do not apologize for our loss, nor do they diminish our grief. But their gentle sway reminds us that when our best plans seem formless and void, God’s Spirit is hovering near, calling something good to grow.

By the time these words are published, the wildflowers that grew in my friends’ dirt basement will be covered over by a new foundation. Inside that new foundation will be a new room with an improved tornado shelter. A new beginning in a stronger home will someday be a reality.

Possible Preaching Angle:

The Holy Spirit is steadily working toward this goal for all of us—a new home that cannot be touched by fire or storm. We will live in a brand-new world (Rev. 21:1) in brand new bodies (2 Cor. 5:1-5).