I should have seen it coming when my mother named the tomato plants this year. When my parents’ friend Jack brought my mother six plants for the patio, she got that look in her eye, and by the next morning, the two tomato plants that even the best farmer in the land would envy and the four pepper plants that are a deep shade of green yet to be named by Crayola had names: Kristi and Kylie are the tomatoes, and Karli, Kari, Kelli, and…oh, I can never remember the last one…are the pepper plants.

I think Jack must have somehow slipped my mother adoption papers when he delivered the first-rate produce, packed in just the right blend of soil, because we talk about these plants as if they were literal children: “I just gave Kristy a drink of water; she was looking pretty thirsty.” “We need to see if the girls have grown any today.” You know, normal talk like that!

But this morning the plants talked back. No, not literally—we’re not that odd!

But as I sat on the patio to have my God-and-I-Time (the time each day when I read and meditate on portions of the Bible and spend some time in prayer, claiming that day’s “new mercies” that I so desperately need), the plants were right in my line of vision, just a few feet away on the edge of the patio. I looked at the large “big beef” tomato that is turning an anticipatory shade of reddish orange and will be ready to pick in a day or two, and I listened with my heart to the lesson that God was using His “preaching plants” to teach me.

When my parents’ friend dropped off the plants, they were already in great condition. Someone had nurtured them right from the start with the very best of the best, and it showed. They were thriving!

Then they were taken from their secure, comfortable surroundings and placed on our back porch. There they had to acclimate to the new conditions, and their caretakers (the silly ladies who call them by human names) had to adjust to caring for them in the best way possible, knowing: how much water to add, when to add the water, where to place the water (in the center of the plant, around the edges, or in the tray in which the pot is sitting), etc.

The well-being of the plants fluctuated for a few days, sometimes looking great and sometimes causing trepidation that we had ruined Jack’s beautiful gifts to my parents.

Then, when they were doing well enough to earn accolades of “oohs” and “ahhs” and numerous “likes” on Facebook photos of them (I told you: they’re like family!), it seemed as if they were invincible.

Then it came. The massive storm front swept through our little town around 12:50 a.m., its entry announced via the loud-but-helpful-and-therefore-apprectiated blaring of the town’s tornado siren. The wind was fierce but thankfully not tornadic. The driving rains pelted the helpless plants in spite of their careful placement in the back corner of the patio when “Mike the Weatherman” had spoken of the impending storm.

The next morning, just after six hours with no power concluded, Mom and I headed out to the patio to “check on the girls.” They looked beaten down—sad, almost. In fact, there were some losses. Two tomatoes well on their way to reaching maximum size and just before starting to change from the chameleon-like shade of green that matched the leaves to the subtle hints of oncoming red were lying on the cement, several feet from the branches that once provided nourishment and strength. The six plants each looked weak and weather-worn.

As the sun finally broke through and shone down on the patio and its inhabitants that day, the leaves began to reach out, seeming to know that their need for sustenance could only be fulfilled in doing so. It wasn’t long before they were holding their heads high, as if rejuvinated for having survived so great a storm. The brutal winds that had beaten upon them and the strong rains that had nearly drowned their ability to survive were now being overcome by the determination to use those circumstances to increase—not relinquish—their strength.

So as I sat on the small wrought iron bench this morning, noticing that the plants, only one day later, looked stronger after the storm than before, the message they sent me was clear: trials might knock us down, cause us to feel like we’re drowning in the struggle for mere survival, and make us doubt our ability to keep growing and moving forward, but those very trials are often the impetus for reaching outward for help and heavenward for guidance. And in doing so, we will once again thrive.

But it doesn’t end there. Today for lunch my parents and I shared a giant—and I do mean giant—bright red “big beef” tomato (one that had been picked prior to the storm and had therefore weathered it well in the security of its placement on the kitchen counter during its final stages of ripening)! And for supper we had…what else but fried green tomatoes, truly serving as a reminder that even when things seem to be “lost,” there is hope!

Oh, and in the spirit of Julie Andrews’s line in the Sound of Music upon remembering the name of the young child whose name she had forgotten, “That’s it—God bless Curt,” I will conclude by stating that I just remembered the name of the last pepper plant: God bless Kodi.

“Each time he said, ‘My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.’ So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.”  —2 Corinthians 12:9, NLT