Sticky Willow

Sticky willow entwined amongst the wild sweet peas, strangling them into congested heaps. They lay trussed tightly against the stone dyke, tangled in the dying daffodil stems and leaves. The green stems and frond-like flowers of the weed blend so well with the sweet peas that sometimes I stare and initially can’t discern them – then suddenly they pop out and I try to trace them back to the roots. Very often, though, the brittle stems break and the root is lost in the green carpet, left intact to grow again. If I don’t pull them out, they diminish the beauty of the wild sweet peas.

Opinions can be like sticky willows. They take root silently, unnoticed. They are formed by and rooted in circumstance, preference, by others we admire, by others we obey, by our own rebellious inclinations. They can entwine around our thoughts and influence our judgment, until the truth begins to fade, to weaken within us, to twist and distort. We can become critical and brittle, denouncing others as we clump in camps of like-minded individuals.

Sticky willows seem to have overwhelmed the White House, tying people into prisons of received opinion, strangling truth and blocking out the light. Sticky willows seem to be growing profusely in Downing Street, compromising truth and undermining ethics. Like triffids, they are creeping into Parliament and Congress, pulling people into factions hardened by hatreds rooted in opinion, not fact.

When I garden, I often fail to eradicate the roots of the sticky willows. I have to return to the same patches and weed them out several times. I’m praying to our Father the gardener, to reach down into this world and delicately but completely pull out the partisan lies and self-serving untruths, the brutal racism and rampant injustices against the innocent, to release truth and refresh beauty.

We like to be independent, to think that we can do it. No. It’s time to lean in to our Father the gardener more than ever and cry out to him to please, come in and sort us out.

Pruned and Prolific

I spent some time weeding and pruning the roses yesterday. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I tried to cut back the stems which were twisted closely together, to allow fresh air to circulate in the middle of the bushes particularly. Seems like a good idea.

Our Father the gardener does know what he’s doing, thankfully. As we trust in him, he will use Covid-19 to prune us so that we can bloom profusely, form good fruit for others and give off the fragrance of Jesus. He is the God of the impossible, who can bring good out of the most desperate situations. This is a time to draw near to him and trust.

As we walk (alone) through these challenging times, we can trust him that in fact, we are not walking alone at all. He is with us.

Beautiful Buds

Still thinking about the stunted growth of some beautiful buds. Crying out to God for those whose early experiences came as assaults of harsh winds and driving rain, leaving them bruised and hurting, wounding them deeply. Jesus called his Father the gardener, and Isaiah declares that this gardener won’t break a bruised reed, or indeed a beautiful rosebud. He is a nurturing gardener, a wise gardener, a gardener who (unlike me) knows which food to apply when, which branches to prune, which wee beasties to zap. He is a gardener whose healing touch transforms what is closing in on itself, encouraging it to open up to the sunshine and bloom. To be unique, fragrant and beautiful in a way that nobody else can be. To let go of the hurts and the torments and turn to Him, allowing his healing to flow through the hurt and bring restoration and assurance of his love, his everlasting, unconditional love.

I’m so aware that often God delegates to us, his children, and know that in and of myself I am a hopeless gardener, either outside or in trying to encourage growth and healing in others. So today, as every day, I cry out to Jesus, for a fresh in-filling of Holy Spirit, to guide, inspire and empower. He is my everything.

Vines and Pruning

A young tree is simple. A slender trunk. Maybe one or two branches.

After years of growth, and ignorant neglect, the tree is much different. It will be composed of a tangle of convoluted branches winding in and out of each other. Some may even have died.

Lives are like that. When we’re young, they seem simple. Uncomplicated.

As the years go by, we become entangled with worries and anxieties, ambitions and goals, sorrows and failures. It’s hard to get perspective. Difficult to see even where the trunk is.

Jesus told Martha, when she complained that sister Mary was just sitting there listening to him rather than helping in the kitchen, that ‘only one thing is necessary, and Mary has chosen the best thing’.

In life we need to maintain focus on the one thing that is necessary, and not become entangled with all the rest. 

Jesus also said that he is the vine and we are the branches, and that the Father in heaven is the gardener who prunes off those branches which are useless.

How many useless branches are entangling me today, Lord? Come and prune those which are unnecessary and just clogging my understanding and obscuring my vision.

Pruning

Dusty lagged behind this morning; so many good smells to investigate! I half-turned back to check her progress and found myself facing one of the many solid trees lining the path to the ‘fort’.  I pass it every day, at least once, and have noticed before the long finger of growth stretching towards the ground. 

Absent-mindedly I’ve assumed it was a weird root, like on trees in the rain forest whose roots reach from above ground, but today I recognized that it is, in fact, just a normal – but errant – branch finding its own way round a bigger branch. A branch that should be pruned.

The tree would benefit from some pruning. It would look more stately, its trunk reaching to the sky and sturdy branches only growing from it. 

I thought of John 15. Jesus is the metaphorical vine and the Father is the expert gardener, knowing exactly where to prune. Unfruitful branches are naturally lopped off but it’s interesting that those bearing fruit are also pruned so that they bear more fruit.

If we are going to resemble Jesus, we need pruning. All of us. Otherwise we become unbalanced. We may lose effectiveness because we are distracted by so many ‘good’ things to do. Sometimes the Father prunes away good things in our lives, because he has better things for us to do. It doesn’t feel good. In fact, it hurts.

But in the end, as we abide in Jesus, we will bear more fruit for the kingdom. 

So if you’re in a season of pruning, hang on. You’re going to be beautiful.