The picture nestles among 1,974 other photos saved on my cellphone. It’s from May 2022, and almost the entire image is a sea of green. Well, a backyard of green, to be exact – our next-door neighbor’s.
Trunks of tall pines dominate the left side of the photo, with the greenery of crepe myrtles and oaks filling the background. Sunlight dapples the carpet of grass and intermittently spotlights both trunks and leaves.
I frequently forget that this picture even exists, but when I do bring it up for closer inspection as I am deleting from my thousand-plus images, the scene always brings me joy. My plans are for it to remain safely ensconced there as long at my trusty iPhone exists.
So what’s the source of my joy when looking at this picture?
At the edge of the neighbor’s patio – not even visible unless the image is brought to full size – is a pinpoint of hot pink. It’s the only spot in the entire picture that emits a warm color. And every single time I see it, I click to bring it up, just to enlarge that dot.
It’s a pot of begonias – and it speaks to me of hope.
Oh, it’s not that the rest of the landscape doesn’t appear delightfully photo-worthy in and of itself. It does. It’s just that this little dab of color adds something special to the tableau.
That fuchsia spot speaks of springtime, of something that stands out from the rest, of life after winter’s icy grip, of something that is almost pure radiance. It offers something to believe in.
I like to think of life like that. Even if we go along, day to day, existing in a world that can often provide satisfying snapshots, we are missing out on something if we don’t have hope.
By that, I mean hope in general as well as hope in the eternal. Hope that in our day-to-day existence something good will come into our future, even if our current photos might be filled with gray. Hope that, if we believe in Jesus and obey his teachings, not only will life here on Earth be filled with meaning, but that our eternity will be so astounding that we can only imagine its glory.
Does that mean our Earth-bound lives are always a bucketful of carefree happiness and leisure as we experience this hope? Certainly not. Think: the Apostle Paul. Think: the prophet Jeremiah.
Even though Paul went through a list of at least 18 kinds of trials and tribulations – depending on how you count those recorded in II Corinthians 11 – he still uses the word “hope” 54 times in his writings. “Hope” in this sense: “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him” – Romans 15:13.
When thinking about Paul’s misfortunes and his responses to them, I also like to consider this post written by a 21st-century Twitter user named Matthew: “People speak of hope as if it is this delicate, ephemeral thing made of whispers and spider’s webs. It’s not. Hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, the grit of the cobblestones in her hair, and just spat out a tooth as she rises for another go.”
Indeed.
So … back to my neighbor’s begonias. I looked out the window a day or so ago to see if they were blooming (the things I don’t know about flowers could fill volumes) because I wondered if the freeze might literally nip them in the bud. No sign of color yet, so I was thankful. Then I remembered that my prize photo was taken in May – so there’s still time for my symbol of hope to reappear and thrive.
Meanwhile, I pray for a burst of begonias to brighten your life. I pray that hope will, in fact, spring eternal.
Sallie Rose Hollis lives in Ruston and retired from Louisiana Tech as an associate professor of journalism and the assistant director of the News Bureau. She can be contacted at sallierose@mail.com.
