The Gardener's Gift

“Gorgeous, crimson petals 

Reaching, grasping, kissing

Beams of light streaking red, 

Colors fall teasing grass below”

Anonymous 

Roses. The ultimate symbol of true love. As Valentine’s Day approaches, I find myself breaking my own rule on using hackneyed symbols and talking about the one thing most people think they have information overload on. However, in my defense, I would like to focus on a different part of the story. I would speak of the gardener, not the gardened. 

Picture with me an old stone cottage in the woods. Thickets line the walkway leading up to a mossy structure that seems uninhabited since the dark ages. An ancient doorframe carved with winter’s marks leads in to a small room in which lives an old, decrepit man. This man has lost his wife, children, and social standing; all that remains of his former self lives on inside his dreams. His back, twisted now from age, cannot handle the work of taking care of his property any more, his feet cannot abide going to the meadow beyond the wood to see any life or beauty. The one symbol of his past blooms beside his doorframe, a single rosebush planted by his wife many years ago, tended to while her heart expired. 

Although he can barely make it to the door each day, all of his pent-up affection and love gets lavished on this one bush. He waters it, feeds it the best sunlight, talks to it, and cherishes it. However there is one issue: the rosebush never blooms. For thirty years this man has tended this stubborn creature of nature and yet every attempt has failed. Yet to give up on it, unthinkable. It, a gift from his true love, must live. 

Now picture the man with shears creeping slowly out the door. He bends down over the plant, shakily grasps its stubborn thorns as they piece his leathery flesh, and winces as he cuts off all of the dead branches, apologizing to the suffering bush. He throws them away and whispers a quick prayer that this might restore his long dead love. 

For weeks it seems his effort has failed; no growth can be seen. Yet, he faithfully pulls himself out of his bed each morning to continue caring for the now totally decrepit looking plant, a jumbled mass of thorns that feed on his precious life blood each morning as he untangles the mess.

 One day, however, he gasps as he looks out his ancient door. For there, in place of the scraggily bush, red crimson droplets have appeared, red as his ancient blood, red as the harvest moon. For the first time in years, through all of his patient waiting and tending, beads of life appear on the stubborn old plant where once only thorns existed. The old man sinks to his knees, crying tears of joy as he embraces the smooth petals of hope, born out of his long cherished dream of finally, finally receiving his price: blood-red roses, born out of suffering and death. 

Now some of you may realize that I refer to an allegory of our spiritual birth, and that God is the gardener. Believe me when I say I mean no heresy. I do not view God as an old man, nor do I think of him as a hermit in the woods. The parallel only exists in my mind as I envision God, the holy and just maker of the universe, trying to work with these stubborn people on earth. He loves them, tends them, gives them all the nourishment and energy they require to live, yet they respond to him like a child to mashed turnips. He persists in loving them however, lavishing his affection on the very thing His Son died trying to save. Finally he must prune the stubborn people he loves, allowing their suffering to finally allow new growth to spring forward. His blood and constant care finally produce the blooms, if only we allow them to grow. 

The question is: Will we accept the sacrifice of Christ and the suffering we must endure to be made beautiful? Or will we continue to resist the pruning we must endure, ending up as charred remains in the fire. We have a choice to make, a symbol to call our own. True love, or tragic loss? It is up to us to make the decision. 

Note: This story is an allegory, not to be taken literally. Read John 15 for more details.