Transplanted

It always comes as a surprise
When my withered roots begin to grow...

I do not remember moving as a child.  My parents moved their family of six into the house where they still live when I was just three or four years old.  It is the only house I remember growing up.  The neighborhood has changed. The house itself, in fact, grew a story.  But it has always been 'home'.
Since I left home to go to college I have moved 11 times (not counting the 4 times I moved back home).  And I moved three of my four kids when they were in middle school.  And after three of them moved out, I moved away.  I'm not sure where they would call 'home'.  I had some mother guilt about this last week.  I bought a few plants to assuage this.

I transplanted several things last week.  And this week, they look just the same.  No signs of new growth.  No signs of death.  Just not much difference at all.  I think that is pretty typical of transplanted things. And transplanted people.   It takes awhile for them to adjust, to take root, to start to grow again.
Although I'm not wilting, I'm not really thriving either. 
But I know Who transplanted me here and I trust the Master Gardener.
The rain is falling, and I think sunshine is in the forecast and I sense new growth is coming. 

I need You in my house, 'cause You're my home.