Ivy and Faith

When I was a child, my grandparents had an ivy that hung in their den, right next to a window.  The vine spilled out of the hanging pot, down through the air, and along the carpet. It was about seven feet long and it often was in the way. When you bumped the pot, the tendrils would catch something and knock it over.  When you tripped over a tendril, the pot swayed precariously over your head.
My grandfather was proud of the ivy and its length.  He and my grandmother would cautiously water it and move the vine out of the walkway countless times.
One day a woman who was down on her luck offered to clean their house. My grandfather was in another room, oblivious, when tragedy struck. Thinking she was helping, the woman cut the vine to get it off the floor. That crime took place more than ten years ago, and if you ask my grandfather today, he would still shudder.  He was devastated that the ivy, so full of life, reaching out to far corners of the house, had been cut down in its prime.
Luckily the house cleaner saved her skin by keeping the vine. The sprig was placed in a vase of water in the kitchen window. My grandfather would occasionally have me top off the vase with water from the kitchen sink, but we never cut it.
My grandmother passed away and my grandfather's health began to decline. The vine in the pot suffered from neglect and eventually died. The sprig in the kitchen window continued to grow, however.  When he balanced against the kitchen sink to get a glass of water, my grandfather could water the ivy, too.  It continued to grow and the tendrils reached from the window sill to the kitchen counter.
Knowing how important the vine was, it was one of the first items I packed when my grandfather moved to his retirement apartment. I placed the ivy on his kitchen window sill, proudly displaying all its beautiful green leaves. I announced to my grandfather that the apartment felt like home now, especially with the ivy in his kitchen.
I returned the next week to check on how my grandfather was adjusting to life at the retirement home. He was fine, even socializing, but he told me to take the ivy to my own home.  He didn't have time to take care of it any longer.
Besides gardeners, my grandparents were also canners, and when we moved my grandfather, I rescued 20 antique Mason jars from the recycling bin.  So when I got home with his ivy, I knew exactly what to do. I filled a Mason jar with water, placed the ivy in it, and set it on my kitchen window.
The ivy flourished and despite my grandfather's pride at its length, I cut it and placed a second sprig in a second antique Mason jar.  When that grew, I did it again. The ivy kept growing, and I kept trimming it and placing the new sprig in a Mason jar.  One day I planted the sprig in a pot from my grandparents' house.
Several years later, I am almost to 10 Mason jars and one pot with the same ivy growing in them.  I place the ivy on top of my kitchen cabinets, and as soon as the tendrils start travelling downward, I cut them and start a new jar.
About the same time as my grandfather's move, a friend from church trimmed her ivy plant and offered me a sprig. She showed me her overflowing pot and told me her husband's ivy was going to take over the house.  I took my sprig home and potted it and I have a healthy plant at the back door.  Several months ago, her husband became ill and all attention was directed to him. The ivy in their
house was neglected and eventually died. Her husband's illness overtook him and he passed away as well. Last week when she visited our home, I was honored to remind her where my potted plant originated and offered her a sprig of her own ivy.
As a person of the Christian faith, Jesus' resurrection story in the Bible is essential to my faith. But I also recognize that the last page of that book is not the last word. My faith grows and also lives outside of the pages of the Bible. I see resurrection lived out every day in many ways.
When I look at my Mason jars of ivy, I am filled with love for my grandparents. When I look at my potted ivy, I fondly remember my church friend. The ivy reminds me of my faith and that the story is never over. We always have room to grow. Being put in a new jar gives us fresh water and a different place to reach out from.
Even though my grandfather was furious about the house cleaner that cut his ivy, the entire plant would be dead today if it hadn't been for her.  When she trimmed it and placed it in a vase, she allowed more growth to happen.  She allowed it to survive.  She was part of the resurrection story.  I am, too.