My first real attempt at gardening was nearly 20 years ago.
We had just built a little house in Knoxville, TN. I bought trays and trays of annuals to brighten the curb by our mailbox. I also planted rosemary, thyme, basil and sage in a primitive basket on the back porch. Those herbs smelled like summer and fall and Christmastime all at once and made me feel like I was home. I still keep pots of each in my kitchen.
The herbs up by the house were easy to tend. I snipped them and made sauces and pesto like I had seen my mother and grandmothers make over the years. The garden away from the house was harder. I needed to learn to dig a hole too big, fill it with fertilized water, tickle the roots so they would begin the process of spreading. And I grudgingly learned to prune. Because I was taught that beheading all the blooms just after planting would yield more flowers. That by taking away the beautiful parts, all the energy could go to the roots.
The pruning seemed so mean.
The first week the flower bed looked as if I had a planted a bunch of spinach or wild weeds by our mailbox. I’m certain the neighbors questioned not only my green thumb, but my sanity. It was depressing really. I wanted flowers and color and texture and the smell of spring. And instead I had cut off all the beauty and threw all the petals in the trash.
In the hopes that new ones would grow. I watered and watched. A few weeks later something miraculous began. Hundreds of blooms scattered the front curb. I admired the blanket of color. I was grateful that it was really true that taking away the beauty initially allowed the water and the nutrients to concentrate on the roots.
Because roots are where the strength to survive is found.
All these years later I snip my roses and grieve them a little bit~ dropping each, one-by-one into a pile. Most are still so beautiful, only some are withered.
I know what pruning brings. Deep roots and more blooms. But I still don’t like it. I sit next to the pile and grieve some things. With each dropping blossom I count the pruning I have seen in my life and in those that I love. So much taken away. One snip: a career, gone. Another: A child, wayward. This one: a diagnosis. One quick cut: finances, wiped out. The last: a dream dismantled. I’m trying really hard to stop pretending when someone’s life has been pruned that I have an answer. But to instead sit next to the petals with them and feel hopeless and confused together. Because sometimes our human hearts just need to look at the pile and grieve. And sometimes there are no words or new buds. Just thorns and pain. When we lose what appears beautiful and right our faith wavers. And sometimes we’re not sure if the flowers will come back. And sometimes they don’t, in this lifetime anyway.
I don’t always understand. I can’t always comprehend. Ann Voskamp calls it “spiritual amnesia.” This forgetting of the truths that in one season were so deeply rooted in us. The truth that He makes ALL things new.
———————————————–
I stand slowly, gardening shears in my gloved hand, to believe again that the pruning is preparing. That there are roots and new blooms I cannot see yet. That this lifeless pile is necessary to strip down and make room for more.
Stronger roots. Bigger blooms.
I have to believe, just like this rose bush, that what is pruned is not wasted. Because there is a promise in the pruning that anything that is lost is always found in HIM. I keep snipping. I keep believing.
I have to believe, just like this rose bush, that what is pruned is not wasted. Because there is a promise in the pruning that anything that is lost is always found in HIM. I keep snipping. I keep believing.
Hebrews 11:1: “Now faith is being SURE of what we hope for, and certain of what we cannot see.”
Be encouraged. He makes beautiful things:
Be encouraged. He makes beautiful things:
[…] 0 Flares Twitter 0 Facebook 0 Google+ 0 Email — 0 Flares × A funny thing happened when this Blue Jean Girl posted a tribute to teachers. Until that post, my awkward, 4-month blogger resume’ consisted of one post that went “viral” with 5 friends. It was shared a whopping 15 times on Facebook. This one? 733 Facebook shares. A couple folks created pins on Pinterest. A ridiculous number of page-views spun, and my inbox filled up. What’s a girl to do with all that?: I shared my excitement with my family (aka my editors….they read EVERY word first…) I told a few friends. I jumped around a little bit and hugged my cat who was a witness to my late-night wordsmithing. (She was thrilled, as you can see.) I even got an extra dose of love from Jennifer Dukes Lee. And, after work each day, when I normally write, I crawled into bed. (With my cat and a bag of potato chips and my inbox.) My words have been bound in Chicken Soup for the Soul books and Guidepost Christmas collections. I get the slow process of publishing. But the current-time pace of blogging? Unknown territory. And it’s scary and strange. But it’s time to get over these confirming moments and back to what I do. Write. Late at night. And during all the in-betweens. I’m grateful and honored that my words about teachers, true heroes, struck a chord. That post was a God-wink to me that playing with words on this iPad and His spirit that flows out of broken me is connecting people. And that’s the whole point of this blog. SO. JUST. THIS. : 1. Welcome to the 260+ new Facebook followers and dozens who trusted to share with me in my inbox. Thanks for joining us. 2. Let’s do this thing. In our Blue Jeans. Let’s keep bumbling-along and picking up our crowns as Daughters and Sons of the King. A King who sees beyond our skinned knees and broken hallelujahs. A King who makes our messes beautiful. Because ~~~~~~~>The gospel is all we have, ~Blue Jean Girl This post is linked up with Lisa-Jo Baker’s Five-Minute Friday on the topic of: Worship. Posts you may have missed: Meet GRACE. And Promises in the Pruning. […]