HERBARIUM | Mullein

The Torch on the Wayside

From our yard: 2nd year plant front, 1st year plant behind to right

Verbascum thapsus

Mullein is not a fragile thing. It rises boldly in disturbed earth—along roadsides, ditches, and fallow fields—where most plants would wither or pass unnoticed. Often, it stands as a bandage for the land after fire has burned through, a living balm. Its tall flowering stalk reaches skyward like a torch, bright with yellow blooms that glow even beneath heavy, overcast skies. At its base, a rosette of woolly leaves lies soft as lamb’s ear, thick with quiet healing.

It is a plant of wilderness and of margins. A settler species, mullein prepares the way for others—offering structure to bare soil, comfort to weary lungs, and a reminder that not all weeds are wounds.

Though mullein does not appear by name in Scripture, its witness is still present—quiet, bodily, steadfast. For what is the wilderness if not God’s classroom? And what is comfort, if not one of His mercies?

Mullein’s medicinal uses have been known for centuries:
• As a tea for coughs, asthma, and bronchitis
• As a smoke to calm spasmodic lungs
• As a poultice for wounds and inflammation
• As an infused oil for earaches—gentle, effective, and long-trusted

Its leaves are demulcent and expectorant—soothing tissue while encouraging release. Its flowers hold anti-inflammatory and mildly sedative qualities. And its sturdy stalk, though coarse, was once dipped in tallow and burned as a primitive torch.

In folk practice, mullein was gathered by moonlight, used in protection charms, and planted near homes to ward off evil. In the Appalachian hills and across Europe, it bore the name hag’s taper—a light in darkness, both literal and spiritual.

Even its form tells a story:
• Leaves like fleece—gentle enough to soothe sore throats and soften sorrow.
• A stalk like a staff—rising through hardship, offering height and perspective.
• Flowers like flame—small, persistent lights in hard and dry places.

Botanically, mullein belongs to the Scrophulariaceae family. It is biennial—growing low in its first year, towering high in its second. This rhythm speaks of patience. Of slow beginnings before flowering. Some of us take but a season to bloom, others two, or a few, or many—like the Ghost Orchid of the Everglades or the Corpse Flower of western Sumatra. And while flowers and people vary—wildly, beautifully, sometimes strangely—each is designed to serve a purpose. Plant, creature, and person alike. Do you not see the design woven through the ecosystem around us? We are webbed into this design as well, not as machine parts mindlessly turning, but as stewards and co-heirs, co-creators.

This line from Through Heaven’s Eyes in The Prince of Egypt strikes deep each time I hear it:
A single thread in a tapestry, though its color brightly shine
Can never see its purpose in the pattern of the grand design.

This plant has grown since and very well may be taller than me now.

So, that fish being caught: each of us, like mullein, has a design and purpose unique. For mullein, it is to open the breath, loosen congestion, ease inflammation, and restore quiet to agitated systems. It is among the safest herbs in the materia medica, though its fine hairs may irritate the throat if not well strained. Like all herbs, it deserves thoughtful use—awareness of the plant, your body, and their interaction. I prefer it in tea blends, often with peppermint as both amplifier and taste.

I keep mullein for the long nights, when lungs tighten and the chest won’t rest. I keep it for grief too—for that deep ache settling like fog in the body. There is something in its presence, in the way it stands sentry along the broken edges of roads, that teaches resilience. Gentleness, not passivity. Steadfast softness, not surrender.

Mullein does not demand attention. But it draws the eye. And more importantly—it draws the breath.

“Thus says God, the Lord,
who created the heavens and stretched them out,
who spread out the earth and what comes from it,
who gives breath to the people on it
and spirit to those who walk in it:”
—Isaiah 42:5 (ESV)

The Lord breathes life into dry bones and dry lungs. Into weary souls. Sometimes the means of that mercy waits quietly in a ditch, blooming in gold.

Mullein was made to comfort—not in the soft and fleeting way of indulgence, but in the enduring way of breath restored. Not all light blazes. Some is held aloft in a fellowship of blooms on a stalk of silvered green.

—Flourish & Fray