Wading in Compost

"The secret to everything is good compost," my grandfather used to say, as he crushed up old eggshells into the soil around his roses.  

Good Compost. 

Sounds like an oxymoron to me.

Who likes compost?  Isn't that just all the garbage and refuse that nobody else wants?
Banana peels, used coffee grounds, potato peelings and grass clippings?
Good for nothing, if you ask me.

And I don't want any of that compost stuff in my life, either, thank you very much.  Emotional garbage and hurts and sorrows...uh, uh.  That's garbage on a real-life level. Leave me out of it, I say. 

But what if I am wrong?

This Lenten Rose pushed itself up out of the thick leaves several years ago.  It seemed to come out of nowhere.  No one remembered planting it.  And yet, there it was, in the middle of all the rotten leaves... it was delicate and beautiful.  I read that it will only grow in soil that is rich in composty-garbage.  Like the almost forgotten edge of the leaf pile.

What if life is like this Lenten Rose?  What if the aches and garbage of this world are actually gifts, given to us to make us gentle and delicate and truly beautiful?  What if the very best and sweetest parts of us are born from pain and sorrow and broken hearts?    That would make our suffering the compost of this world.

My grandfather could be right...

Maybe the secret to everything really is good compost.