A year or two ago, I heard a song on the radio a lot—a prayer for God to “make me broken.”
I understand why such a plea is important, and I appreciate the sincerity with which it is offered.
But while many people may find those words just right for them, I don’t pray that way much.
There’s an azalea bush on the side of my house, nestled under the canopy of a large Colorado blue spruce.
I don’t know the history of this particular shrub, but I do know a thing or two about the landscape that surrounds it. Long-time neighbors say it used to be quite impressive, with expansive flowerbeds, outdoor lighting and a water featuring running down the entire right side of the backyard.
By the time we moved in almost five years ago, though, there wasn’t much evidence of the yard’s former grandeur. Besides the mammoth clump of ornamental grass in the front, some flowering trees in the back, and a lone perennial here and there, most of the landscape consisted of overgrown weeds, bare mulch and way more periwinkle than anyone would ever want.
Bit by bit, I began to renovate the garden spaces that had so attracted me when we first looked at the fixer-upper we now call home. Along the way, I discovered a few pleasant surprises, like the prolific clematis on the side fence and a host of flowering bulbs that seem to pop out of nowhere in early spring.
But the azalea bush was not on my list of favorites. Crowded there under the spruce tree, it looked like a misshapen umbrella, with a few inches of growth on top and a mass of bare branches underneath. Thankfully, it was hidden away in an obscure section of the yard, so I mostly just ignored it for the first few years.
I considered moving it, but that involved more work and care than I was willing to exert for a shrub I didn’t really like. So eventually, I decided to dig the whole thing up, pitch it in our city-issued yard-waste cart and be done with it.
Around this time, my azalea-loving younger sister happened to be visiting. When I told her of my plan, she suggested that, instead of digging up the hapless bush and throwing it away, I should chop it back almost to the ground and let it grow again.
I’m not a risk taker, even in the garden, and her recommendation seemed a bit drastic. But since I was planning to get rid of the whole thing anyway, I decided to prune back half of the bush and see what happened.
Sure enough, the following spring the pruned side of the azalea sprouted a lovely crop of new leaves and bloomed nicely. I cut back the rest of it later that year and trimmed the spruce tree that had been crowding it for years.
Today, the azalea is significantly smaller, but it’s also greener, fuller and has a much nicer shape. Thanks to severe pruning, the bush I almost threw away has become a source of joy for this once-timid gardener.
When it comes to this little gardening anecdote, the theological analogies are numerous.
I could write about how the Master Gardener often wields His pruning shears when He needs to discipline His children, cutting out the sin in our lives so new growth can occur. Or how He gets out the clippers when we’ve grown cold or lazy in our faith and need the deadwood removed from our hearts.
But when I think about my azalea bush, something else comes to mind. You see, as obvious as this might sound, it wasn’t the bush’s fault that it wasn’t thriving.
I’m guessing this shrub was a glorious specimen early on. But it had been neglected by previous owners of the house in recent years. The nearby fence got in the way of its growth. It had been planted too close to the spruce tree, which had all but choked it out by the time we moved in.
The azalea had no control over any of these factors. The only thing it could do was eke out a pitiful existence and hope (if plants are capable of such feelings) that a gardener would come along one day and rescue it.
Something similar can happen to us, I think. When we are adopted into God’s family, we become new creations. The old goes away as we become firmly planted in our new lives (see 2 Corinthians 2:17).
But over the course of the years—as life goes on in us and around us—what was once new can become worn, thin underneath, or even flat crowded out. Like the azalea bush, we can stop thriving like we once did.
Our condition might be due to our own sins and choices, but the choking-out also can be caused by external factors.
And sometimes, the only thing that will revive us is a whole-life renovation.
Sometimes God has something else in mind for us to do, so He allows or orchestrates the circumstances of our lives to cut us way back. He doesn’t do this to be mean or to punish us, but to allow new growth to occur—growth that often prepares us for whatever comes later in our lives.
It’s not always comfortable to think like this. It might be easier to believe that the difficult things that shape us just happen or are merely the result of a fallen world—that God can certainly use them, but that He doesn’t orchestrate them.
I don’t have all the answers to these theological puzzles. I’m just speaking from the perspective of a gardener. And here’s what I know about that.
The azalea couldn’t prune itself.
It didn’t even know it needed pruning.
I had to do it.
I had to conjure up my confidence and hope that the drastic measures I was about to take would, indeed, transform the bush into something beautiful again.
My efforts worked with the azalea bush. Now I need to do the same thing with the row of boxwoods that line the front of my house. They look good from the top and front, but underneath, they, too, are a mass of brown branches.
Given their prominent spot in our landscape, it will take some serious guts for me to prune the boxwoods way back. Honestly, I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to initiate that transformation.
Thankfully, when it comes to the whole-life renovations of His children, God doesn’t need guts or hope.
He knows the outcome before He begins. And everything He does, He does out of unconditional love for us.
♥ Lois
Yesterday, Randy and I stood in line for almost three hours, waiting with thousands of other voters to cast our ballots in the Kansas Presidential Caucus.
Today, the Song of the Month for March serves as a comforting reminder that no matter who wins–in the primaries or in November–it is God who is sovereign, unchanging and wholly worthy of adoration.
Indeed, as Aaron Shust puts it, He is “God Evermore.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3kVSv_BT48
I read a lot of lighthearted fiction, mostly on the treadmill. But from time to time, the pile of half-read books on my nightstand includes memoirs dealing with death and grief.
Randy doesn’t understand why I’m drawn to such heavy topics. He’d much rather read real-life adventure sagas starring Navy Seals, Army Rangers or wilderness explorers. You know—your garden-variety survival stories.
If you think about it, however, the books I’m drawn to are survival stories, too. Mostly written by loved ones left behind, they deal with the very real and excruciating aspects of what life looks like in the aftermath of profound loss.
I’m not sure why I embrace such books. Maybe it’s because, for the longest time, I was kind of oblivious to pain like this, and now I’m not. Or maybe I just didn’t know anyone who was hurting in such ways, and now I do.
I want to help, somehow, but before I can even attempt to try, I want to understand. So I pick up books like And Life Comes Back by Tricia Lott Williford, or A Grace Disguised by Jerry Sittser, or The Hardest Peace by Kara Tippetts.
And I read—sometimes very slowly, always with a lump in my throat.
Their stories are all different, but one thing these authors usually get around to sooner or later is the clumsy and insensitive things people say when they are trying to extend a comforting hand.
Unfortunately, most of us don’t need to look very far to find examples of this in our own circles. A friend who was battling cancer once told me that the way people responded to her often was influenced by their fear that what was happening to her would happen to them.
“They say things, sometimes the wrong things, because they want you to make them feel better,” she said.
I hope this is not true for me, though I understand what she meant. But I also know this: whatever the motivation behind our words, when we haven’t been there, it’s hard to know what to say.
So we choke out things like, “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling,” and hope that helps somehow.
The fact is, the person in the midst of loss knows this. She knows we’ve not been there, and she doesn’t expect us to understand completely. What she probably wants, more than anything, is our presence.
But what if we could imagine what she was experiencing? What if, instead of shuddering at the thought of her pain, we actually tried to put ourselves in her shoes?
This is scary, I know. It creates big lumps in our throats. It makes our stomach hurt. It might even make us shed a tear or two.
Nobody wants to think about the unthinkable happening to them. We just don’t. But what if we pushed past the fears in our hearts and purposefully went there—for someone else?
Imagine what it would be like if you were the one to receive the knock at the front door, if you were the one spending hours by the beside in the pediatric cancer ward, if you were the one with the wandering spouse, if you were the one on the receiving end of the life-altering diagnosis.
Imagine the shock, the pain, the ache, the loneliness.
The point isn’t to get caught up in some horrible daydream or gut-wrenching game of what-if. Instead, just for a moment, simply think of what your friend is facing and imagine how you would feel if it happened to you.
Now you have an infinitesimal taste of what she’s going through. You CAN imagine it, because you HAVE imagined it.
You don’t have to tell her, of course. In fact, you probably shouldn’t. But what you can do, now, is care for her more tenderly. If you’ve truly tried to put yourself in her shoes, you can’t help but walk differently from here on out.
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I used to think that I had to have a reassuring answer for every pain, a bit of wisdom for every problem.
I don’t think this way anymore. In fact, if I’ve learned anything in the past few years—both as a giver and a receiver of encouragement—it’s that tears in our eyes are almost always more comforting than words from our lips.
And if we have to use our imaginations to help us get there, maybe we should do it.
♥ Lois
If I’ve learned anything in the past few years—both as a giver and a receiver of encouragement—it’s that tears in our eyes are almost always more comforting than words from our lips. Share on X
In the 17 months since I started blogging, I’ve read a lot about writing, the writing life and how to succeed as a writer in our electronic age. I’ve come across a few things I’m doing right, as well as plenty that I could do better or differently.
As I skim through all this information, I’m always interested to read what the experts say makes a person a writer.
For example:
Real writers can’t not write.
Real writers write very day.
You can only call yourself a real writer if you have been paid for your writing.
I’m no expert, but if you’re trying to decide whether to call yourself a “real writer,” I think it’s more appropriate to consider who’s reading your stuff and how you feel about the actual writing process than it is to try to measure up to the standards set by these pithy declarations.
Sure, I have a journalism degree and years of professional experience, but from where I sit, a blogger with a couple hundred loyal followers who has been faithfully writing for six or seven years is as much of a writer as I am.
Maybe even more so.
There seems to be some glamour attached to writing that I think is misplaced. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. “Real writers” put their pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else. (Well, almost everyone else. But that’s another story for another day.)
I’m not saying that penning a book is not a worthy accomplishment or an admirable bucket-list item. I’ve written two, and I thoroughly enjoyed the process and the end result.
But what nobody tells would-be authors is that books go out of print, sometimes very quickly. When that happens, you are left with deep disappointment and hundreds of deeply discounted books (which you then have to haul around from house to house the next three times you move).
In the coming months, I will share more of my writing story, including situations when I’ve been humbled and what I learned when my words went away for years on end (which totally debunks the theory that real writers can’t not write, by the way).
For now, though, if you’re struggling with whether or not you can call yourself a writer, I have one simple suggestion.
Stop worrying about being a real writer and concentrate on producing writing that is real.
This doesn’t just apply to words on the page, of course. We should strive for authenticity in everything we do—whether we’re teaching, helping, running, encouraging, cleaning, baking, sewing, leading, designing, singing or serving. And not in a “Just keepin’ it real, Dawg” kind of way (this isn’t American Idol, after all).
Each of us should aim to be real in a from-the-heart, true-to-ourselves way, whatever that looks like for our individual personalities. But transparency and vulnerability are especially important for writers who want their work to connect with people on some deep level.
This might sound simple, but it’s far from easy. That’s because the road to real is paved with brokenness.
Perhaps a conversation between a toy horse and a stuffed rabbit who longs to be real (from Margery Williams’ children’s book The Velveteen Rabbit) can shed some light on how it works.
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
When a person who has experienced this kind of “becoming” sits down at her laptop and starts writing—freely and without fear of others’ opinions—the results can be breathtaking. Life-changing, even, especially when faith is the driving force behind the story.
Former slave trader John Newton famously wrote, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.”
In these profound lyrics, Newton brought his wretchedness out into the light, not to glorify or shame himself, but to draw a contrast between what he was and what he became because of God’s amazing grace.
That, I think, is what real writing is all about.
Yes, it’s about speaking honestly and openly about our whole selves. Yes, it’s about showing people they’re not alone. But mostly, it’s about pointing others to Jesus—the only one who can turn our sorrow into joy, replace our wretchedness with righteousness, and remove our shame by showering us with mercy.
♥ Lois
Stop worrying about being a real writer and concentrate on producing writing that is real. Share on X
The other day, I had the kind of conversation I’m sure every mother dreams of having with her daughter.
It was about a topic that has befuddled young and old for ages, but it had nothing to do with God’s sovereignty or how you know you’re in love or the best way to tell if a watermelon is ripe.
Lilly was doing homework at the kitchen island when she looked up and asked me a question that had apparently been swimming around in her lovely head for quite some time.
“When I’m writing,” she said, “I have a little mind war with myself about whether I should put effect or affect. How do you know which one to use?”
Be still my beating heart.
If this question plagues you too, Grammarist.com answers it this way: “To affect something is to change or influence it, and an effect is something that happens due to a cause. When you affect something, it produces an effect.”
My response to Lilly was something to that effect, though not nearly as concise. But our little discussion didn’t bless my heart simply because I love words so much (although I do, especially ones that are used properly). It thrilled me even more because of the growth it represented.
Four or five years ago, I doubt Lilly was even aware that affect and effect were two different words, and she likely wouldn’t have been able to spell either of them correctly.
She’s been a voracious reader since second or third grade, and her ability to recall what she has read has always astounded me. But it’s only been in the last couple of years that her writing abilities and attention to detail in her schoolwork have truly blossomed.
Her development in this area has been a joy to watch, but it didn’t come because I hired a tutor for her or worried to her elementary school teachers about spelling issues (ahem).
It came because she has a gift, and it takes time for gifts to grow. Yes, instruction and practice are important, but sometimes the best thing to do to encourage the development of something is nothing at all.
As I watch this play out in Lilly’s life, it gives me great hope for what is to come for younger sister Molly. When she struggles with something academic, I remember what’s happening with Lilly and I’m less inclined to push and prod and try to cajole her into learning faster (as if that ever works anyway).
The two of them have different strengths—what comes easily to one does not always come so easily to the other, and vice versa. This makes my job as their mom more challenging, but also much more interesting.
Truth is, I am fascinated by my children—at the way God wired each of them so beautifully, and how that wiring is so obvious in how they think, speak and move. I’m also grateful that ultimately, He is the one directing their growth and development, along with their steps, all the days of their lives.
My conversation with Lilly about affect and effect reminded me of a poem I read a long time ago. I normally don’t care for poetry, but “Woman with Flower” by Naomi Long Ladgett made an impression that has never left me.
I wouldn’t coax the plant if I were you. Such watchful nurturing may do it harm.
Let the soil rest from so much digging and wait until it’s dry before you water it.
The leaf’s inclined to find its own direction; give it a chance to seek the sunlight for itself.
Much growth is stunted by too careful prodding, too eager tenderness.
The things we love we have to learn to leave alone.
I’ve seen these beautiful words transpire in my own flowerbeds many times. Lately, I’m finding the analogy also applies to parenting. And oh, for the wisdom to know when to prod and when to leave alone.
♥ Lois