The Diva by the Window

How a fiddle leaf fig reminded me that grace doesn’t flinch.

I brought her home like I was ready for something serious.
Not a fling.
Not a cactus I could forget in the corner for a month.

She was a full-blown commitment—
leafy and green and perfectly photogenic.
She had a presence.

The kind of plant that didn’t just sit in a room—she owned it.
Tall. Elegant. A little smug, honestly.
The type that makes you question your life choices
just by existing in her own quiet superiority.

I named her.
Misses Lady Figsworth.
Formal. Dramatic. High-maintenance.
It fit.

I gave her the best spot in the house.
Right by the window. Indirect light only—because she’s sensitive.
I whispered things like, “This is your forever home,”
like I was adopting royalty.

And she responded.
A new leaf here. A little upward stretch there.
We were thriving.

Until we weren’t.

Apparently, the tag that said “moderate care” was lying.
Or maybe I was just underqualified.

She threw silent tantrums if I watered too much.
If I watered too little. If I nudged her pot an inch to the left.
She dropped leaves like she was done with me.
Brown edges curled like she’d been wounded.

No yelling. No drama.
Just quiet wilting. A long, slow exit.

And I didn’t notice. Not right away.
Because I was busy. Distracted.
Checking boxes. Running errands. Scrolling screens.
Moving fast but never really seeing.

And it wasn’t just her.
My Bible sat unopened.
Prayers got shorter.
My own heart wilted, dry at the edges—thirsty and unseen.

Until one day, I passed her,
and her arms were slumped over the edge of the pot like she’d given up.

I gasped—like I wasn’t the one who’d left her there.
I rushed her to the sink like it was urgent.
Whispered, “I’m sorry,” and “Please don’t die,” like she could hear me.

She drank. Quietly. Without blame.
She just absorbed the water.

And I thought—
Isn’t that grace?

Isn’t that me?

Wilted from neglect.
Still rooted, somehow.
Still hoping Someone remembers I’m here.
Still waiting for Living Water.

And isn’t that Him?

The One who doesn’t flinch.
Who doesn’t shame.
Who doesn’t forget what He’s planted.
The One who pours gently, faithfully,
until the hard places soften again.

“For I will pour water on the thirsty land,
and streams on the dry ground…” – Isaiah 44:3

She wasn’t asking for much.
Just a little light.
A little water.
A little notice.

And neither is He.

Just a turned heart.
A little room by the window.
A branch stretched back toward the Gardener’s hands.

Scripture

“I am the vine, you are the branches; the one who remains in Me, and I in him bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing.”
— John 15:5 (NASB)