Lazarus (proper noun) - A brother of Martha and Mary whom Jesus raised from the dead; A black-eyed susan, living in a pot on a deck in upstate New York

My first real foray into the world of gardening took place this summer in the form of several orange pots on my little deck. Arguably, this is not really gardening: I didn’t have to pull a single weed all summer, and none of my plants have had enough blooms at any given time for me to justify cutting some for a kitchen table vase. But my hands were gloriously dirty after potting those plants, and we ate many meals seasoned with herbs we picked from the pots on the deck. Also, none of my plants died before their time, and I was even able to get them to re-bloom throughout the summer. So I count it as gardening, and I count it as success.

But for a while, it didn’t seem like it would be. So let me tell you the story of Lazarus.

Laz is a black-eyed susan. I found him sitting drooped next to the building where I work, his roots bundled into a plastic grocery bag, spilling dirt that was more woodchips than soil. He was with some other plants, but since it was late May, none of them were blooming, and he was the only one I recognized by foliage alone. Above him, taped to the side of the building, was a cardboard sign with the word “FREE” scrawled on it with a dried-out Sharpie.

Depressing, right?

So I hefted him up and dumped him as gently as I could into the trunk of my car, trying to ignore the weak flutter of the drying leaves on the other abandoned plants. After I got him home, I went to Lowe’s to get soil, fertilizer, pots, and a few other plants. After all, one lonely little black-eyed susan wasn’t going to count as gardening.

Laz (who wasn’t Laz yet, just “the black eyed susan”) was doing all right in his plastic bag. He wasn’t exactly lively, and he had a few brown stems among his wilted leaves, but he was hanging in there. When I got back I went out and sat cross legged on the deck, with my garden-to-be stacked around me. I dragged the plastic bag off him and loosened up his roots (though they were already pretty limp) and tucked him into the pot, filling dirt in all around so he’d have a cozy home. After a little fertilizer and water, I was done, and I moved on to my other plants. Soon I had a row of pots, big and little, lined up along the bottom of the railing, waving their leaves (and flowers, on the ones I’d bought at Lowe’s) at me. Even Lazarus was perked up for the first time since I rescued him from compost.

That was in the afternoon. The sky was pink and purple- a shy, springtime sunset- when I checked my garden again. The plants were doing fine… except for Lazarus! His leaves- what had happened to them? They weren’t just wilted, they were crumpled! The little dish under his pot had water in it, but he wasn’t soaking any of it up! I slid it out from under him and poured the water over his dry dirt again, and soon he was looking a little better. Relieved, I went back inside to eat dinner with Eric, but I kept an eye on my black-eyed susan all evening. He was still okay when I went to bed, and after I watered my plants again in the morning, he was looking downright healthy. Heart light, I left the house.

When I returned, the sun was high and hot, and Lazarus was dead.

I fingered the dry, wrinkled leaves and browning stems sadly. There was no doubt in my mind that yes, my black-eyed garden rescue project had passed along into flower heaven (he was definitely not headed to flower hell, since I’m pretty sure he could have checked “yes” for each of the Beatitudes). But, because I’m an eternal optimist at heart, I watered his dry soil again. And what do you know? The dead came back to life! Green crept in and chased away the brown from his foliage, and tired stems straightened up.

This was when I decided to call him Lazarus. I was so excited about this verdure resurrection that I told Eric about it the minute he walked through the door. He’s a dear, and made no comment on the craziness of naming a plant (he even laughed over the pun of the name).  And so the newly-christened Lazarus lived, and I was happy.

Until the next day, when he died again. And then I watered him and he came back to life for a bit before the inevitable fourth, and fifth, and sixth (etc., etc.) demise.

I grew resigned to this. After consulting both mom and the internet, the only diagnosis I had was transplant shock, and I concluded that Lazarus was too far gone. I’d tried watering him again and again, but his roots had been dry too long to remember how to soak up any life-giving water… and the hot, early summer days were just too warm.

I banished the useless watering can. Poor, poor Laz.

Later that day, though, something happened. Not to Lazarus, but to the sky. Fat, grey clouds unrolled lazily from where they’d been resting on the horizon and spread themselves out overhead. The air cooled as a whisper of wind nudged the new leaves on the trees. Then, as I watched, it began to rain.

The drops that fell were tiny and soft, hardly more than a drizzle. For almost a week, the lightness of the water kept the grey roads stained brown. It kept the air fresh, making you feel as if you were breathing in Eden every time your lungs expanded. It kept my dreams sweet, infused with the chuckle of rain on the roof.

And it kept the soil in my pots damp.

In general, if it rains for more than two days in a row, I start to get itchy. But this rain was revitalizing, and when those lazy clouds finally decided to roll themselves off and away, Lazarus was alive. Really, truly alive. He didn’t crumple away from the bright new sun anymore, but spread his leaves boldly, greedily using all the light he could suck up. New, baby leaves sprouted, and by mid-July, he was showing off more buds than I thought possible for my scrawny black-eyed susan.

And every single one of those buds opened in the August heat, tiny little suns waving back at the world.

I’m going to try to winter Lazarus, so he can come back again next year… and the year after that… and the year after that (although I’ll need to consult mom and Google again for how to do that). And someday, when I have a garden that’s more than just a few orange pots on a little deck, there’ll be giant clusters of those tiny suns all around the yard in late summer, and vases full of them throughout the house. And if you come visit me then, I’ll give you some to take home for your own kitchen table. Or, if you want, I can dig some up for you to plant yourself. Only, don’t give up if your black-eyed susan pulls a stunt like Lazarus did. Just water him and remember that it probably runs in the family.

He’s just waiting, listening for the insistent, irresistible call to life.