One Tulip at a Time (or) On Failing Forward

“Is there anything I can help you with?” asked the kindly teacher as she stopped by my table.

“Can you make me better at this?” I responded, only half joking.

We both looked down at my dismal attempt to paint the gaudy bouquet she’d placed at the front of the classroom as our subject for the five-week acrylics class I’ve been taking at my local senior center. This had all sounded more appealing when I read about it online, when the dream of officially learning to paint still felt. . .dreamy.

She laughed and said, “For those learning to paint acrylics, the process typically goes something like this: ‘I love this! This is hard. This is the worst. I’m the worst. Maybe it’s not so bad. I love this!’”

I didn’t tell her that my inner painter had bypassed the “I love this stage” and had begun firmly rooted somewhere between “This is the worst. . .I’m the worst.” I sighed, blinking back tears. I had wanted so badly to love this immediately—to be good at it sooner rather than later.

“What would you do next if you were me?” I asked.

My teacher’s response struck me as containing wisdom beyond the circumstances which prompted it:

“I would just pick one tulip and do my very best on it,” she graciously replied. “One tulip at a time.”

For the rest of class, I compromised by painting 3 sub-par tulips and thought about what it might mean to live my life one tulip at a time. To really invest in one small corner of my life, brushing it with water and pigment, coaxing color, shape, beauty, and form from it. To have patience for all that has not yet blossomed in me; to do the hidden work of cultivating my small plot of existence. I wonder if this is what Jesus meant when he told the ever-busy yet big-hearted Martha, “You are worried about many things, but only one thing is necessary—indeed, only one. Mary has found it, and it won’t be taken away from her.”

Especially in overwhelming seasons, how do we live from a place of painting just the one tulip necessary, turning away from all the other flowers that beg for our attention and cultivation? How do we live a life of focused—undissipated—faith, one that in its potency, purity, and concentration becomes the oil of anointing we pour upon the feet of Jesus? Although I believe Martha and Mary represent two parts of a well-rounded life of faith—active service and contemplative worship—I believe Jesus indicates that we are to take a cue from Mary and find the one thing necessary by beginning at his feet.

In my nearly thirty years of walking with Jesus, I am learning now more than ever that this narrowing of our focus simply cannot be bypassed—it is only in entering through the (at times excruciatingly) narrow gate, stripped of all that is unnecessary, that we are lead out into greener, broader pastures—a spiritual reality of freedom in the Kingdom which the Psalmist describes as being brought out into “a spacious place” (Ps. 18:19). The number of times I have attempted to skip around the narrow way of following Jesus tulip by tulip, one step at a time, and run towards greener pastures all by myself is laughable—maybe even lamentable. But if I’ve learned anything in this season in which most of my energy has gone towards managing my depression and trying to detect any semblance of the narrow gate in the dark, it is this: the only life worth living is one of dependence, in which the Good Shepherd leads me through the valley of sorrow. All I am asked to do is focus my entire being on attuning to and following his voice, one step at a time.

In a recent coffee date with a friend, I described my painting class experience as “failing forward.” I tried something, and I’m not good at it, but I did it. Jesus doesn’t ask us to be good at attuning our ears to his voice or following him; he simply asks us to try. He is not impatient with us, but longs for us to turn to him every time we fail. And no matter how much we might want to rush ahead or bypass them, seasons of pain and darkness strip us of our ability to paint the whole bouquet. But this does not have to be bad news. As followers of Jesus, we are invited to go on a treasure hunt of sorts with him as our guide, wayfinding with the One thing necessary in alert attentiveness to His presence. As the hymn goes, “In Christ alone my hope is found. . .He is my light, my strength, my song.” I want to be someone for whom Jesus is my one tulip—for life with God to be the garden plot I cultivate until it becomes my whole life, making a mess of blossoms and color everywhere I go, failing my way forward into a beautiful existence—a spacious place. One tulip at a time.