I love the herb tarragon. I have a chicken, rice, and carrot recipe that tastes bland until I go to my French tarragon plant in the garden, cut off a branch, and snip its leaves into the pot. This particular plant traveled more than a thousand miles when we moved from our home in Michigan’s Hiawatha Forest to our new place in Wyoming. A hot, windy summer last year nearly sucked it dry. I brought it in for the winter to nurse it along in our sunny bay window, where it appeared to die.
Every time I tried to uproot this little crispy-leafed plant to throw it away, something stopped me. So, I talked to it like my green-thumbed Grandma May had done with her ferns. I even prayed for it, in Jesus’s name. Maybe there was some hope left. Some faith.
When the disciples asked Jesus to increase their faith, He didn’t. Maybe faith being present was all that mattered; maybe the size of faith wasn’t important. After all, Jesus said that faith as tiny as a mustard seed could uproot a mulberry tree and cast it into the sea.
One late winter morning, I watered all my plants as usual, feeling a little silly to be watering the dead French tarragon. As I looked closer, I saw three small sprouts peeking out of the soil—healthy and green.
Although my faith in that dying plant was as small as it gets, it was there, growing too.
—Suzanne Davenport Tietjen
