Unexpected Signs of Hope

Marigolds have unexpectedly become a symbol of hope for me in this bleak moment where we find ourselves, as a church and as a country.

Our little backyard garden didn’t do anything right this summer. Well, almost anything. 

For years, our little raised beds would generate pounds of tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, garlic, and peppers. Our household would be swimming in the most delicious produce all season and we couldn’t go anywhere without a big basket of fresh goodies to share. A bountiful garden has long been a spiritual metaphor for me, and I have always loved stepping into our little suburban oasis each morning to delight in the abundance of God’s creation. 

This year, I prepared for our best season yet. I carefully plotted and planned. Cool weather crops in April and September. The sun-loving varieties planted just in time for the warmer months. Seeds started indoors in March in a perfectly balanced nutrient-rich soil. Tomatoes carefully staked and pruned. New organic fertilizer that smelled terrible but promised to triple my yields. A consistent watering schedule. No pesticides and low-till weed control. I had invested so much time and energy into the perfect growing season and was ready to reap my rewards.

But when it came time for harvest, we were wildly disappointed. A handful of tiny tomatoes here and there, a sunflower patch decimated by hungry squirrels, and the saddest crop of cucumbers I’ve ever seen. It was a small betrayal for me. For all that work, nothing, it seemed, had gone to plan. 

Nothing, that is, except for the marigolds.

Last season, I collected a handful of dried marigold blooms and saved the seeds in my pantry. When it came time to plant, I scattered them around the garden without much thought. And while nothing grew the way I planned this season, the marigolds arrived in full force. They grew wherever and whenever they wanted and nothing seemed to stop them. At one point I razed them all, hoping their absence would give my greens a bit more space to breathe. And they grew right back – more scrappy and resilient than before.

In the wake of an election cycle that can only be characterized by darkness, it’s very easy to find ourselves curled up in our own despair. It’s easy to consider all the ways we’ve labored for justice and feel like we’ve failed. To feel betrayed by our own dreams of a future – for ourselves, our communities, and our earth — that now seems in jeopardy. 

And the same can be said for many of us in the Catholic Church, following the most recent Synod on Synodality. The beautiful foundation that this Synod laid for a new way of being church — a church that listens, that journeys together, and that is committed to a praxis of co-responsibility — is being called into question as reports emerge about the gathering’s shortcomings. Many have felt disappointment by the language in the Synod’s final document about women’s leadership, particularly in its continued non-consensus on women’s ordination to the diaconate. It’s easy to abandon hope that this behemoth institution will change in any meaningful way. 

Despair is so tempting right now. To give up. To point fingers. To doubt our dreams. To turn inward. To stop showing up. But, in this season of a scarce harvest, where nothing is going right, we must look for the unexpected signs of hope – the scrappy and resilient marigolds — in our own gardens. 

For me, I’ve been finding hope in community. In the past few weeks, I have watched my community give each other the space (and, sometimes, the permission) to grieve. We’ve helped each other attend to the unexpected emotions that emerge in times like these and recommitted to journeying together through this season of uncertainty. I have witnessed a renewed energy around mutual aid and community investment. People showing up and wrestling together with what it means to be a community committed to the common good. I find myself moved by women in our church who courageously share their gifts and invite others (myself included) to join them at any table of power to which they’ve been given access. 

And for me? I have written little notes to my neighbors introducing myself. Cooked hearty meals for my friends and set the table with flowers and candles. Showed up to church and introduced myself to someone new. Attended to my own feelings of disappointment and anger and fear with gentleness and self-compassion. 

And I have harvested thousands of marigold seeds in hope of all that lies ahead.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maura Rocks is a graduate student at Catholic Theologian Union studying pastoral ministry, reconciliation, and restorative justice. She has served as a high school teacher, campus minister, hospital chaplain, and spiritual director, and is passionate about building communities committed to justice, healing, and liberation.