I keep telling myself that if God were not going to use me in some way, He wouldn't be working so hard on me right now. Because a season of pruning and slow, painful growth is definitely what I'm in.
Actually, what I feel like is a peony bush. (Are they called bushes? Technically, I'm not sure.) Here's the thing with peonies - they have lovely tuberous roots that multiply, causing the "bush" to propagate and grow. Over time, peony bushes can get quite big. But eventually their root systems get overcrowded, and when that happens, Peony can't bloom very well, if at all. So a wise and gentle gardener must dig up the entire mass of tuberous roots and very carefully separate them into smaller sections, and then transplant them all into new and separate holes in the ground, where they will have ample room to continue growing.
What was once one peony plant, blooming in one place, will one day be two, then four, then six, then eight plants blooming in many different places. And thus the glory of God is spread.
For best results, the Wise and Gentle gardner will do this digging, separating and replanting in the fall, allowing the roots a time of dormancy before growth is required in the spring. A time to draw nourishment from the fresh soil around them, protected also from the elements of nature above the crust.
But then - Oh! - then, when spring comes, and the freshly separated-and-transplanted-with-room-to-grow Peony sends up it's new growth and bursts into bloom - you would not BELIEVE the masses of blooms that it produces. Masses!
There is nothing like a first-season transplant Peony harvest.
But in me, well, I'm not there yet.
This time last year was my season of overcrowded roots. No blooms.
In His wise and gentle way, the Master Gardner dug me up.
Separated me. From places, people, habits, things... anything that wasn't nourishing. Anything that wasn't Him. Knocked a lot of bad dirt off me in the process.
And now, I feel like the parts of me He's dug up He has pulled apart, and He's carefully and intentionally re-planting them in new, freshly dug holes. (To continue this analogy, one could humorously say I'm being "buried alive".)
One part of me is already planted at home. This part is actually doing quite well. New growth is already showing on the roots.
Another part of me is already planted at church. This part is also acclimating well to its new hole of dirt. It likes this hole of dirt a lot. Lots of room to grow here. Lots of potential. This part of me is one happy plant.
And yet... there are other parts of me that are not planted yet. I didn't realize this until recently, but when I did, it felt very distinctly like a part or two or three of me were still lying out on the barren ground, waiting on the Gardener's perfect timing to be placed in a perfectly prepared hole for the winter.
Dormancy.
The parts of me that are beginning to grow in their new environments and are looking ahead with great joy to the fruitful season to come are QUITE UNCOMFORTABLE with the other parts of me lying exposed on the cold ground. Waiting. Watching. Resting... however unsuccessfully at times...
When, Lord? When will you plant the rest of me? And where? How long must I wait to begin the sometimes painful but always exhilarating process of growth? And the fruit? Will it be good? Will it be plentiful? Will it be beautiful?
See the lilies of the field, you say. More beautiful than Solomon in all his magnificence. And you know, dear one, that the same thing applies to peonies.
Yes, Lord, I know.
Please, plant me, I say. Let me grow. Bring me safely to summer, to another season of fruit. For You.
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