looking through me

Tag: hope

March 15, 2016

watching the tree

One tree in the backyard captivates me.

A few weeks after it surrendered its last orange of the season, a new cycle began. Tiny, white knobs elongated into plump furled buds. Clusters of buds became clusters of blooms on slender stems no thicker than a toothpick.

But then the forecast changed. A storm was coming.

I fretted over the blossoms: how would they withstand the wind and the rain?

If the flowers fall before the fruit sets, there won’t be any oranges next year. Unlike lemon trees which produce year round, orange trees take ten months to bring one annual crop to fruition.

So when the skies cleared and the winds subsided, I took stock. Some blooms littered the ground, but the little tree held onto most of its flowers. Delicate petals that brown or wither from the lightest human touch weathered a thunderstorm with aplomb!

I continue to check on the tree each day, and I remind myself that hundreds of buds lead to dozens of flowers, which lead to tens of immature oranges. Only some will finish the long course and ripen into edible fruit.

But I can’t tell today which those will be. I can’t predict which bud will be knocked off before blooming or which flower will fall without an orange setting in behind it or which teeny piece of fruit will hold on for months and months and mature into a juicy navel orange next winter.

And as I ponder the wonder of a solitary orange tree—as I revel in each tenuous stage in the cycle—I start to wonder where I am in the process. What is budding in me today? How many buds will bloom? How many blooms will set in fruit? How many of those will survive and ripen over many months into meaningful produce?

Somehow I overlooked the stages of maturation. I expected fruit to appear in an instant. I watched for ready-to-pick peace and joy and gentleness and self-control in my life.

But maybe I should stop searching for fruit and start praying over each bud and blossom—not knowing which ones will make it but confident that as I tend to each through the storms and the sunshine, fruit will come.

 

 

 

 

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February 23, 2016

confession

I shifted in my seat and folded my hands to keep my fingers from fidgeting. The tension of waiting gnawed on my nerves.

Suddenly I felt the presence of someone slide into the seat to my right. A soft introduction cued me to begin speaking.

“Well, it’s been seven years—” I tried to sense a reaction before plowing ahead, “—I know I’m way over-due, but, um, I’m here today because . . .”

I spilled my story. I owned my actions and braced for the consequences. I submitted to the prodding—this is what I came for—as I waited for the pronouncement.

After some quiet contemplation, I received the verdict: “No cavities. Your teeth are in really good shape for it being so long since you’ve seen a dentist—hardly any buildup. Now let’s look at that chipped tooth.”

My shoulders slumped in relief. The fix for the tooth and subsequent cleaning flew by. I barely noticed the poking and scraping. I was practically giddy knowing my years of dental inattention didn’t cause any long-term effects.

As I got out of the chair I realized the weight of guilt I’d been carrying as I pretended I had everything under control. I waited seven years. I waited until I was broken.

And I do the same thing with God.

I try to do better on my own. I wait until I’m damaged beyond what I can repair. I squirm in His presence because I know exactly how long it’s been and what I’ve done.

Yet when I confess, He scrubs me clean and smooths the rough edges. He points out the tender places and weak spots we need to keep an eye on together. I have ongoing responsibilities. But He never gives me what I deserve.

Textbook mercy. And I know it.

 

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