We’ve lived here five years. When we bought our house, we inherited a bristly rose bush, along with the rest of a dismissed yard. This is the rose bush. We knew it was a rose bush, just look at the leaves, feel the thorns. But for five years we have watched this bush longingly: each year we've been left confused, disappointed, let down. We were sure it was a rose bush. But we had never seen a bud, let alone hope of a flower. We have never beheld the true beauty rose bushes here.
Two years ago I chopped it down nearly to it’s based. Frustrated. I cut away everything that wasn’t producing. Tossed the clippings in the woods. Again, nothing. Last year, I did the same—instead determined to uproot the whole thing and render it a worthless plant, but I stopped short. I still desperately wanted to see the rose. What color would its flowers be!? The desire, anticipation to see fruit willed me on. So I pruned the limbs, added some compost to the base of bush, and I left those root in the ground.
And we waited. All winter we waited. Five years now.
But clearly there was growth where I couldn’t see happening below the surface. A rose bush encouraged to do what rose bushes do.
So imagine my bewilderment when this spring, we didn’t count one bud—but eleven. Eleven glorious buds. With red now peaking through. Red!
What if I had given up?
What if I had neglected it?
What if I hadn’t fed it good food?
What if I had dug it up to be forgotten?
What a beautiful sight we would have missed altogether. A rose bush, producing a rose. Like it was intended to do. We would have let something able to produce, die. What a tragedy, a lack of color, a lack of sweet aroma our detailed yard would be without.
Hear this, my sisters.
Oh that we may care so greatly for one another in the church that we tenderly, even with pain in our eyes, trim away the dead, lifeless parts to encourage growth. May we care so deeply for each other that we give each other the rich food of God’s word. May we care so compassionately for one another that we do not cast off and give up on one another, even after five years. May we, day after day and season after season, check to see where buds are forming, patiently waiting the end result of a beautiful rose. May we celebrate the buds and the blooms we see flourishing around us.
May we emulate our Master Gardener by yes, scattering seed and faithfully watering, but also resolving to not neglect the good work of pruning and fertilizing the bushes that already exist.
Oh may we each put forth eleven roses this year after years of pruning the fruitless.
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