She gave it to me at Christmas 2024.
It was blooming so beautifully when she handed it to me, and I remember thinking it was the perfect gift to enjoy through the holidays and for months afterward.

And it did.
It bloomed and bloomed… until one day, it didn’t.

The flowers faded, the stems began to fall, and though I kept it in the light—hoping, waiting—it never came back the way it once was. Still, I noticed a faint hint of green beneath the red wax, like a whisper of life.

I couldn’t throw it away.

It had become more than a plant.
It was one of the last gifts my sweet friend Deborah gave me before she lost her battle with pancreatic cancer last summer. So the red wax ball remained on my windowsill… a small, sacred reminder of her and our last Christmas together.

Life moved on, as it does.
But I held onto it.

And today, I learned something beautiful—these bulbs are only meant to bloom for a season in the wax… but they are not finished. They can be set free, planted, and given the chance to grow again.

So today, I gently removed the wax.
I cleaned the bulb and prepared it for a new life.

And as I do, I can’t help but feel there is a deeper story here…
about seasons, about loss, about the quiet hope that something once beautiful can bloom again.

I will plant it. And in the years to come, every bloom will remind me of Deborah—her kindness, her friendship, and the gift she gave me… one that is still unfolding.

“The Lord will guide you continually,
giving you water when you are dry
and restoring your strength.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like an ever-flowing spring.”
— Isaiah 58:11