Master Gardener

That person is like a tree planted by streams of water,
    which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither—
    whatever they do prospers. -Psalm 1:3

If you have read many of my ramblings here, you know how I feel about gardening. You know that in the three-plus years since my husband died and left me to care for his beautiful plants, the gardens and I have struck a truce. And part of that truce, on occasion, has included my redefining what is "weed" and what is not.

I am not a gardener. I think it's genetic for me, way, way back to the original Garden. 

You know. Eve said, "Adam, you go ahead and name 'em and tend 'em, and when they bear fruit, I will prepare a delicious dish from these plants. I am sure you will find it tempting and yummy." 

That was how Rich and I did it, too (minus the serpent). He grew 'em, I would put 'em up. And applaud. When the flowers were in bloom, I would oooh and aaah with the best of them. But the gardening itself was not my thing.

There was one gardening task, however, that I have always enjoyed. 

Dead-heading.

I have two beautiful butterfly bushes, one by my step and the other, a volunteer, around on the side of the house. During the season, they grow to a solid six or seven feet in height, loaded with beautiful purple clusters that droop and hang like grapes from each branch.

A week ago, I was going down the steps and stopped for a moment, just to listen. The bush was alive with the hum of bumbles and honey bees, working at extracting the pollen and nectar from each bloomlet. Giant tiger swallowtails silently doing their part, as well. 

And each day, as summer moves toward fall, some of those clusters die. They become brown and dry and no longer appealing or filled with nectar. They reach the end of their usefulness. 

But if I am fairly diligent about removing those brown clusters (dead-heading), the bush continues to offer more purple bliss to those bees and butterflies, at least for a season.

So I do. I go out there with my scissors and I snip and snip and pitch the dead heads under the bush, and pretty soon the plants are looking better again, more alive without all that junk they no longer needed.

And over the course of a few days, sure enough-- fresh blooms appear. Until finally, fall arrives and it's finished. 

I was out dead-heading this morning. It took a long time. But like many tasks, it became a time for me to think, to enjoy the quiet and focus on the task. Listen to the snip-snip-snip of the scissors, smell the heavy perfume that attracts the bees. 

Step back when one of those bees reminds me whose bush it really is. 

And then I started thinking about my own life and the need for dead-heading when "stuff" has outlived its usefulness.

Sometimes I recognize it-- and sometimes I don't. And sometimes-- the last thing I want is for that dried up, out-of-date thing, or idea, to go away.

But it has to. If those parts of me that are growing and lively are to continue to grow-- guess what. Snip, snip.

That's where the Master Gardener comes in, the One who holds the Divine blueprint that shows what's good and what's shriveled and sapping extra energy that could go in a more life-giving direction.

Believe me, dead-heading the butterfly bushes is so much easier than allowing God to chisel me. Letting go of old ways of thinking and acting? Ugh. Do I have to? 

Well-- no. I suppose not. If I don't mind becoming stagnant and filled with useless "stuff" that saps my energy and takes away from the good "stuff"? 

Nah. No modifications needed.

I know how my butterfly bushes look when I let them go untended. Do I really want my life to continue as is, with no attention paid to what the Gardener knows is best-- for me?

It's always our choice. 

God's Chisel

(Aside: There is a hymn about coming to the Garden alone, and the joys shared when it's just-me-and-Jesus time. But I have to tell you. Sometimes those me-and-Jesus moments can be a little painful. Necessary and good-- but painful.)

Lord God, show us your love, and help us to accept it, freely and willingly. One step at a time. Amen