The Flower in its Season

On trusting the Master Gardener in the winter seasons of life

I awake to the whoosh of the wind. It is morning, although I know that by measure of man’s timepiece and not of the sunrise; there isn’t enough light to coax even a slim shadow anywhere. I hear the gusts rush by, sweeping the canopy of evergreens and buffeting the house. I can’t decide if I am comforted by the coziness of my warm bed, or if I am weary of the fury of the outside world.

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I enjoy the quiet before the inside, though blessed, chaos of children and chores awaken. My blue mug in hand, I steep tea (green, with citrus peel) and open my Bible to Revelation, the study this year with Bible Study Fellowship. Twenty four years ago, I was a group leader who left to pay more attention to the two babies I had waiting at home for me. I was accused of allowing the devil to remove me from ministry. The Lord convinced me however that my home was my ministry, and He made me a joyful mother of many more children in the ensuing decades.

But it is good to be back in a small group, as a student, studying and discussing the Bible. The notebook and assignments are juicy and fat and I am appreciating the homework. I am given assignments to read, questions to answer, information to think over and to pray about. I consider my studenthood as I am reading about destruction and wrath in chapter seven, while I hear alder limbs cracking and dropping outside, my lamplight flickering in fits. Sometimes I don’t know where my attention is supposed to be. Sometimes I just need somebody to tell me what to do while the wind is howling.

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Later in the morning, I switch the laundry out and start to cry unexpectedly. I miss my deceased friend, and wonder who is doing the laundry at her house, who is making the extra special Christmas touches, who is running the family calendar. I don’t begrudge her fleeing to the Savior; I ache for her family and, selfishly, for myself.

What is wrong with me, I wonder. Am I just grieving? Are my hormones a mess? Do I need more vitamin D? Am I lonely? Depressed? Hungry for a cinnamon roll? At our fellowship last Sunday, a friend sidled up and asked me how I was doing, and as I knew her question was an honest one I said, “I dunno…D+?” and immediately felt ashamed of my lack of gratitude and contentment and shriveled up fruits of the spirit.

I stop folding the laundry upon my bed and read the poem I have framed on the wall, “God, Thou art Love” by Robert Browning. It was given to me at another friend’s funeral, two decades ago. She, too, died leaving children behind. I read it again, and then once more for good measure.

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I make myself go outside once the wind dies down, to investigate any damage. The light, although diffused throughout the endless grey sky, makes my eyes wince. Too much time inside, I chide myself. The quiet is strong, a heavy muting of summer’s song birds and vibrant flowers. Barren trees stand somber against the sky, and now and then I hear drips of water upon decomposing leaves on the gravel driveway. I notice some limbs that need to be cleared off the road, but nothing pressing that needs attention before spring. I think of, and pray for, those mountain people still suffering from the hurricane, many of whom would utterly long for a simple walk in the cold just to look back to their still standing cabin with a wood stove chimney breathing out ribbons of transparent smoke into the sky. I have zero such reasons to feel so low.

I come to the eleven cuttings I had planted the year before: fodder trees for extra nourishment for the animals I hope to have someday. The buds are already set upon the little whips, growing in cages to protect them from browsing deer. Somehow, I laugh. “Maybe, Lord, I am a little whip, too.”

Those little buds remind me of Ephesians 1:13, In whom ye also trusted, after that ye heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation: in whom also after that ye believed, ye were sealed with that holy Spirit of promise….

Yes, yes, I see, Lord. Sealed with the Holy Spirit, protected until the day my purposes are fulfilled, I see. I know. But I am stupid and need reminding. And you are a good God to remind me that though the wind is howling and I am buffeted and my outer man is wasting, my inner man is secure and being strengthened even in this moment.

Perhaps winter isn’t the sorrowful drudge I think it is. Perhaps it is really my season of choice growth. For the cold increases hardiness, does it not? And in the long, dark and frozen seasons, do not the pests that eat both plant and beast die off? Perhaps those loathsome sins that bite and badger so will do likewise as I have time to reflect and to repent while I am huddled away from the rush of productivity and better times. Or, alternatively or even concurrently, perhaps I am involved in too much navel gazing (the crick in my neck ought to be one sign of that), and not enough lifted-head watchful waiting, trusting in the roots to hold me fast in whatever the weather.

I am glad I do not have to grow my own buds.

The wreckage of sin and the signs of the times—everything from the winds of heathen raging to vain imaginations—are easily recognizable and lamentable to those whom put their trust in Jesus Christ. But do we also see the buds of promise, and trust the Master Gardener with His pruning and harvest date?

If you need permission to rest in Him as I do, remember He gives His beloved sleep (ps 127:2), and it is He who will bring about the flower in its season (Phil 1:6).