Axe upon my heart
I love to read of people's life experiences that accompany valuable life lessons. That's why I wish very much that I could envelope this post in a personal story that explains the circumstances around which I learned the life lesson. However, that would be too personal for this oh-so-public blog. So I must simply present what it is without any of the bolstering that a story can give and hope that you will be able to apply it to your own various experiences without the hindrance of an anecdote.
I get it. Of course it's logical to cut off bad things. That diseased branch over there was just weighing everything down anyway. Yes, please, cut it off. Oh, and that one to the right, see, it was struck by lightning and now it's useless. You can rid that one too, I don't mind. But that one, the one with all the feathery-light green leaves that are rippling through the wind, so healthy and strong--never cut that!
The axe is raised, aim is taken. The shoulder falls and the axe with it; it severs the branch, the good one. The branch falls to the ground, lying scattered among the other branches that had been cut; branches that were rotten and weak, unlike this one which was flourishing so well.
It makes you cry out in pain. And just as you bend down to mourn, another swing, another "thwack!" and another cry as another fine branch falls down. You feel yourself falling with it.
In my falling, I question. I am the skeptical plant that distrusts what the Gardener is doing. "You really shouldn't have cut off that part, it was bearing such lovely fruits!" And yet the Gardener knows what I need better than I. Even though this feeling, this cutting, is an axe upon my very heart.
"Why are you doing this?" I often think these thoughts while trying to sleep. It doesn't make me sleepier, but I get some good thinking done. And then it comes to me. Much in the same way that a thank you note is slipped beneath a bedroom door, the thought slips into my heart, both quiet and intimate:
"...every branch that does bear fruit, He prunes, that it may bear more fruit."
Back in Pennsylvania, our lane is lined with glorious tiger-lilies every July through August. A few years ago, in June, a road worker came in a machine and hacked away the near stemming flowers. We mourned over them for the entire Summer. A year later, they were abundant and had multiplied in stunning amounts.
The Gardener knows what He is doing. When I think He is being foolish (imagine my ignorance!) and tell Him that He is wrong, I only further prove my need for His loving and sometimes painful touch.
Sitting on a patio drenched in yellow sunlight, I sat beside a man named Jim. I had been reading my bible, but seeing that he was eager to talk, I set it aside to listen to what wisdom he might impart. He's old, but still so full of life.
"There used to be little blue flowers that grew right there," he said, pointing to an empty flower box beside me. He mentioned that landscaping has been his lifelong work.
"I'm on my knees a lot," said he.
"It's a good time to pray, isn't it?" I asked, drawing from my own quiet gardening times of prayer in my little plot of earth. He agreed, and went on to speak of one of his customers who was bewildered at what he had done to transform one of the trees in her yard.
"It's flowering and completely different," he mimicked her, and then looked at me with eyes that said, "It's just common sense," and explained how the tree had too many healthy branches for it's own good.
"All I did was clear away some of the branches and then the remaining ones could flourish."
My mind zipped to John 15 and the imagery given there of the tree that is pruned that it might bear more fruit. I tucked it away in my heart, knowing that someday I'd need it.
A year later, and these words come back to me more fully understood.
You may feel that God has given you too much to handle, or that He's abandoned you altogether. Besides, who would take away good things? Only the most loving Father and Gardener, Who knows that, in doing this, a fruit of greater quality and quantity will be born. Take heart, He knows what He's doing.
I get it. Of course it's logical to cut off bad things. That diseased branch over there was just weighing everything down anyway. Yes, please, cut it off. Oh, and that one to the right, see, it was struck by lightning and now it's useless. You can rid that one too, I don't mind. But that one, the one with all the feathery-light green leaves that are rippling through the wind, so healthy and strong--never cut that!
The axe is raised, aim is taken. The shoulder falls and the axe with it; it severs the branch, the good one. The branch falls to the ground, lying scattered among the other branches that had been cut; branches that were rotten and weak, unlike this one which was flourishing so well.
It makes you cry out in pain. And just as you bend down to mourn, another swing, another "thwack!" and another cry as another fine branch falls down. You feel yourself falling with it.
In my falling, I question. I am the skeptical plant that distrusts what the Gardener is doing. "You really shouldn't have cut off that part, it was bearing such lovely fruits!" And yet the Gardener knows what I need better than I. Even though this feeling, this cutting, is an axe upon my very heart.
"Why are you doing this?" I often think these thoughts while trying to sleep. It doesn't make me sleepier, but I get some good thinking done. And then it comes to me. Much in the same way that a thank you note is slipped beneath a bedroom door, the thought slips into my heart, both quiet and intimate:
"...every branch that does bear fruit, He prunes, that it may bear more fruit."
Back in Pennsylvania, our lane is lined with glorious tiger-lilies every July through August. A few years ago, in June, a road worker came in a machine and hacked away the near stemming flowers. We mourned over them for the entire Summer. A year later, they were abundant and had multiplied in stunning amounts.
The Gardener knows what He is doing. When I think He is being foolish (imagine my ignorance!) and tell Him that He is wrong, I only further prove my need for His loving and sometimes painful touch.
Sitting on a patio drenched in yellow sunlight, I sat beside a man named Jim. I had been reading my bible, but seeing that he was eager to talk, I set it aside to listen to what wisdom he might impart. He's old, but still so full of life.
"There used to be little blue flowers that grew right there," he said, pointing to an empty flower box beside me. He mentioned that landscaping has been his lifelong work.
"I'm on my knees a lot," said he.
"It's a good time to pray, isn't it?" I asked, drawing from my own quiet gardening times of prayer in my little plot of earth. He agreed, and went on to speak of one of his customers who was bewildered at what he had done to transform one of the trees in her yard.
"It's flowering and completely different," he mimicked her, and then looked at me with eyes that said, "It's just common sense," and explained how the tree had too many healthy branches for it's own good.
"All I did was clear away some of the branches and then the remaining ones could flourish."
My mind zipped to John 15 and the imagery given there of the tree that is pruned that it might bear more fruit. I tucked it away in my heart, knowing that someday I'd need it.
A year later, and these words come back to me more fully understood.
You may feel that God has given you too much to handle, or that He's abandoned you altogether. Besides, who would take away good things? Only the most loving Father and Gardener, Who knows that, in doing this, a fruit of greater quality and quantity will be born. Take heart, He knows what He's doing.
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