Under Grumpa's Hat

My Mom had a green thumb, loving plants and flowers, and she made sure I had some in the condo. But unlike her, I’ve always been horrible with plants. A tiny, speckled fern she’d gifted me was withering, its delicate fronds turning a sickly yellow. I sighed, ready to consign it to the bin. “It’s just not meant to be,” I muttered to myself, already picturing its demise.

I called her, venting my frustration. “I’m just going to throw it out, Mom. I can’t keep anything alive.“

She came over, her eyes gentle as she examined the drooping fern. She turned the pot slowly, touching the dry soil. Then she said something that struck a chord with me…

“When a plant isn’t doing well, you don’t throw it out, you check what it needs.”

She took the fern home, promising to see what she could do. I was skeptical. Weeks later, she returned, the fern a vibrant, lush green, its fronds reaching outward like tiny, outstretched arms. It was almost unrecognizable.

It got me thinking… People are the same. When someone is struggling, you don’t just walk away. You figure out what’s missing.

My friend Rick had been distant, quiet. His usual vibrant energy was gone, replaced by a dull, listless silence. My instinct was to give him space, to let him “sort himself out.” But Mom’s words echoed in my mind.

I remembered how she’d carefully checked the fern’s soil, noting its dryness. Some need a little water: time, love, or support to help them grow again. I started by simply showing up, bringing him coffee, asking how he was, and genuinely listening to his mumbled replies.

Then, I noticed the shadows under his eyes, the way he flinched at loud noises. I remembered how the fern had needed indirect sunlight, a gentle warmth. Some need a little light: kind words or encouragement to help them feel seen. I began to remind him of his strengths, of the resilience I knew he possessed. I told him stories of his past triumphs, of his kindness and humor.

And then, there was the quiet patience, the unwavering belief Mom had shown for the fern to recover, even when it looked beyond saving. And sometimes, they just need someone to stay close, quietly believing in them until they’re ready to stand tall. I stopped trying to force him to talk, to “fix” him. I simply sat with him, a silent presence, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

Slowly, Rick began to emerge from his shell. He started laughing again, his eyes regaining their spark. He told me about the pressure he’d been under, the fear that had been gnawing at him. He didn’t need me to solve his problems, he just needed someone to see him, to water his parched spirit, and to believe he could bloom again.

We’re all just trying to bloom, even on the hard days. And sometimes, all it takes is a little understanding, a little patience, and a lot of love to help someone find their way back to the light.