Recently, my mom came to my room holding a rose from my rose bush in our garden that I thought had died several seasons ago. The rain had resurrected the life in it, and in the midst of what seemed dead and barren, it bloomed.

I’d often looked at that tree and seen pieces of myself and my story and all the ways God has redeemed me and healed me though I still bear the scars. Seeing it broken in half was no different.