When Flowers Bloom in the Valley

I was driving home the first time I heard Flowers by Samantha Ebert. It started as background noise, another soft song in a long playlist, until one line stopped me cold:
“Trust that God’s holding a watering can.”

Something about that lyric felt like a quiet truth I’d forgotten.

I pulled into the driveway and sat there with the engine running, listening to her sing about waiting, about pain, about believing that something can grow in the valley even when all you see is dirt. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt tears fall down my neck.

Because I know that kind of valley.

There are seasons in life that feel like drought. You keep showing up, praying, doing the work, and still nothing blooms. For me, that season looked like loneliness, exhaustion, and single motherhood in its rawest form — trying to hold everything together when everything felt heavy.

The lyrics hit me differently because I wasn’t listening from the mountaintop. I was listening from the middle.

I think we like to imagine faith as this shining, victorious feeling - bright mornings, answered prayers, and everything making sense. But Flowers reminded me that sometimes faith is quieter than that. Sometimes it’s getting up on a Tuesday, still tired, still hurting, but whispering, “Lord, I trust You’re still watering the ground beneath me.”

When Samantha wrote the song, she was bedridden for months, unsure of what healing would look like. She said she wanted to remind herself and others that God doesn’t stop working just because we can’t see it.

That line could have been pulled from my own journal.

There are days I scroll through my phone and wonder why everyone else seems to be blooming while I’m still waiting on a sprout. But the truth is, not all growth is visible. Some roots run deep before the flower ever breaks the surface.

Maybe your valley is grief. Maybe it’s disappointment. Maybe it’s the kind of waiting that makes your heart ache. If so, I need you to know this - God is still holding the watering can.

Even if your soil looks dry. Even if nothing feels alive.

There’s a verse that I come back to when life feels still:

“Though the fig tree does not blossom and no fruit appears on the vine… yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” — Habakkuk 3:17–18

That’s faith in its truest form. Rejoicing in the middle, not because of the outcome, but because of the One who promised to bring life from the dirt.

I’ve spent a lot of time asking God why certain doors closed, why I’m still in waiting rooms, why things I prayed for so deeply didn’t happen when I thought they would. But maybe the valley isn’t a punishment — maybe it’s preparation. Maybe it’s where our roots grow strong enough to hold what’s coming next.

Sometimes I think God lets us sit in the soil a little longer because He knows what’s about to bloom needs depth to survive.

Faith is hard when nothing moves. When all you have is the ache and the silence. But silence doesn’t mean absence.

“The Lord will fight for you; you have only to keep still.” — Exodus 14:14

I’ve had to learn that “keep still” doesn’t mean “do nothing.” It means stop striving to control what belongs to Him. Stop digging up the seed to see if it’s growing. Stop measuring your faith by what you can see.

Because flowers don’t bloom in panic. They bloom in patience.

Lord,
Teach me to trust what You’re growing out of sight.
When I can’t see the bloom, help me believe in the roots.
When the ground feels dry, remind me You’re still holding the watering can.
And when it’s time, let what You’ve planted in me finally rise.
Amen.

If you are in a season where nothing seems to be growing, hold on. God is still present in the quiet. There are roots forming, unseen and steady. You may not see flowers yet, but one day you will.

Even when nothing is blooming, faith still plants seeds. 🌿