The sun steals glances through the low clouds as they roll over the mountain peaks that surround the valley where the houses stand. I struggle for breath as I puff up a hill steeper than the one before. And the struggling is not just in the hill. I think of the steep walls of the valley of the soul in which I find myself, struggling for breath even here. I think of all the carefully, prayerfully plotted steps that brought me to what I thought would be a promise land, only to find myself wandering in a wilderness.
The cool Cape air is suddenly steeped with the strong aroma of lavender. I come out of my thoughts and am brought back to my surroundings, eyes searching, spying purple blossoms clinging to slender shoots which decorate the gardens of the many houses along this path. But having passed these stalks yesterday with nothing so noteworthy, the question begged why the air should now be heavy with the bloom’s distinctive scent.
I turn the corner and find my answer. A lawn service, with a furor erupting from equipment in hand, busily manicuring an unruly front garden. And there before me, lying carelessly at the street’s edge, remnants of a lavender hedge that had only just been cut back. Lacerated limbs and broken buds bleeding their rich, beautiful perfume throughout the neighborhood.
I stand, unable to move, staring.
Taking in the scene, I watch this literal and visually unpleasant process of pruning unfold before me: The barrenness of once fruitful limbs, cut away until nakedness remains. Bits of old life now littering the pavement below. The crudeness of the cut as the crowning glory is cast down.
I watch, a witness to this age old gardener’s method.
But, today, there is something even more. Something more than what can be beheld by the eyes.
There is this powerful, all encompassing, overwhelming fragrance.
My tired lungs fill, expand. Exhale. Expend. Empty.
And then I breath once more, expanding again. And again. Deeply.
I reflect on the lavender, on her scattered limbs, discarded. No time to grieve what has been taken, thrust abruptly into her new life phase. She is my inward image, the mirror of my desolate inner being. .
I begin to wonder of my own struggles, bespeaking not a wilderness season after all, but one of pruning, of preparation. A time of careful and intentional removal of things no longer necessary, things that could impede growth and hinder -even harm- a greater harvest.
Like my counterpart, as I undergo pruning, laid bare and vulnerable before watching eyes, when I am broken and my strengths are paired back and my weaknesses revealed, it is in that moment that His grace has room to prove sufficient, and that even such a painful undertaking can bring forth beauty.
There is a unique opportunity for this divine taking-away to yield a declaration of joy in the midst of personal trial. My brokenness, no longer a tragic misfortune that must be endured or worse, hidden, but rather my privilege to bear, my confident profession of the endless love and infinite wisdom of my God who knows me, desires me, and desires the best for me. Like incense, this gift of vulnerability pours forth, an offering to His throne room and a fragrant balm to fellow pilgrims who, like me, may be trying to hide broken limbs to protect a delicate ego, a fragile false self; who fear being known, broken bits and all. Even if the brokenness is a necessary part in the process of healing, growth, and abundance.
This process.
This wholly intolerable yet utterly indispensable process.
Marking my life.
Enabling me move out of my self pity. Out of my longings for old garments that no longer fit my new person. Out of my mourning for times and things past, and into a new season, full of life and promise, radiating the unmistakable aroma of one fully submitted to the trustworthy hands of The Gardener. Evidence of one undeniably dependent upon the One in whom she is rooted.
Drawing up strength. Drinking in life. And slowly, but ever steadily, being resurrected to something, to someone, greater than her former glory. Richer. Fuller. Fruitful. And even more so. Because pruning produces greater harvests, in time.
This mangled shrub does not mourn her losses. Her seemingly injured state but an Ebenezer of her season on the journey, and a testimony of her quiet knowing that new limbs will stretch once more skyward, alive and vibrant, in a not-as-slow-as-expected fashion. Her discreet expression of praise developing anew, as she does likewise.
I find my feet again, in more than one way. The path seems easier now, the load lighter. And though I make my way homeward, the scent of lavender lingers. I lift my own limbs, and I join in the celebration of all creation, knowing that pruning, including my own, gives way to newness of life. A life that emits the fragrance of my Christ.
“Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance . Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation -- an aroma redolent with life.” 2 Corinthians 2:15, The Message
