Forgiveness, they say, is to let go of vengeance. To release someone from the pain they've caused, and set them free. To love regardless, and willingly set revenge aside. Forever.
How was your pain written? Was it the slow drip of words? Words through time, diminishing your being, rendering you paralyzed, like a dirty cleaning rag? Was it action? Perhaps inconsiderate thoughtlessness, or worse yet, calculated intention shot through your soul like the dagger of betrayal. Perhaps you’ve been misused, or taken for granted. Maybe you were someone else's experiment and you've felt the emptiness of freedom to direct your own existence.
We've all been in this place. Sometime. Somehow. It’s cloaked in many forms, yet the garment is always hemmed with sorrow, or anger. The place of being hurt. The place of misunderstanding and brokenness. We've each experienced the shocking cold when blood and adrenaline courses through your heart, and numbs the space between your ears. It surges. The violation of others pressing on your very existence. Pressing you down. Pressing you against your choice. It is intimate, yet mostly arrives from those trusted.
Sometimes those we love the closest, can see us only in one light. There is a mold and they’ve fit you in the box. The problem is obvious. Living things, beings; we all grow. We don't stay within the lines. Life prods, pokes, and urges us forward. Seasons change and bring both death and growth. With this cycle, each one of us, all of humanity moves and merges. We take on new abilities, we learn new realities, old thought patterns wither, naive dreams die. We are pruned, and cultivated as time passes by, and suddenly with the emergence of new green leaves we don’t look the same to the companions of our past.
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There is only one who can recognize and fully appreciate the course of this gentle growth. The farmer is alone in His supreme care and intimate knowing of every strong branch, and weak joint. He alone trims the dead branches; he alone visits his prized garden. He walks through in the cool of day, and at the break of morning, tenderly looking over His living tapestry. His hum can be heard as he gazes and waits.
He sees the bugs, crawling over leaves. He sees the birds, pecking for food. He knows all and in patience He looks toward the time of harvest. He isn’t swayed by the bugs, or detered by the birds. He waves them away, and tends carefully, always looking ahead with expectation and confident patience.
The raspberry bush has her thorns, she has prickly leaves. She fends pests in her best way. But these, are the offense. Bugs cause the pain. Cute little rabbits, seem friendly until they eat away at the leaves, struggling to unfurl. What's that little plant gonna do? Is she going to attack the caterpillars with her sharp thorns? Can she? No, she will open her leaves to the sun. She will not hold the pests by the throat, waiting for their recompense. No, no. She will dig her roots, deep into the nourishing soil to find her strength. She will look to the sun, and wait for her rain. She will grow and wait for her fruit to develop and ripen.
The peach tree has not seen fruit in two years. This is the third spring he has waited for his blossoms to cling to life in the midst of frost and snow. For years, he has seen barrenness and his harvest has not been. In spite of fertilizer, pollination, and healthy branches, he has only felt the longing; desire to feel joy he sees each other plant experience. The apple tree beside him and the grapes nearby all enjoy the prosperity of harvest.
In the waiting, what can the peach tree do? Can he curse the snow? Can he take revenge on the other plants who have seen harvest upon harvest? No. He will not. He will wait. When the spring snow collects on his blossoms, he waits. His gardener lovingly and gently shakes the branches, and blesses the fruit of this tree. Yet the tree will wait. He has grown accustomed to reveling in the joy of spring, not expecting harvest, but expressing gratefulness. With the melting snow, the leaves courageously stretch, and the breath of angels heats the blossoms. This is the third year, yet this year, the harvest will come. Blossoms give way to budding fruit and growth has begun.
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It is not up to any one of us to choose where we are planted, or what we will face to test our resolve. We cannot avoid the pain and injury that come with a fallen world. Sadly, we will endure scarring that will change our growth patterns. Have you already seen this? That time when you opened your heart to someone and then had to step outside of yourself while you watched them bruise and shred it into pieces.
I suggest it for you, and grasp for this myself. In the face of agony and violation, the affront may feel great and it comes oh so easily to counterattack, curse, & plot revenge. However, you know it as well as I. It doesn't feel right; it is not in our highest nature to carry this out. It is only in our best nature, to let go of the offense. It is in our best scenario to trust the farmer. The gardener knows how to watch over His tender plants. He wants to yield a harvest, even more than every one of His plants. Can you? Can I? Dare I ask; can we learn a new growth pattern? The gardener will help. We can submit to his pruning, we can trust in His wisdom to trim the unproductive branches. He will remove the mental brokenness that causes us to cycle around and around in questions and wounded thought patterns. He will cut it off in the right season because He knows your ability to produce plenty of fruit. He plans for growth and is not discouraged by the garden pests. He takes it into account, while He surveys and prepares the soil.
Oh little plant, tender growth still yet to see your capacity. With love I urge you, let go of the offense. Let go of the pain. Cry out to the tender caring Farmer. He is your ever present help in trouble. Write it, cry it, sing it, however you must, hand over the pain to the wise One. Jesus walks in the garden and He weeps with those who weep. He tastes your tears as His own and knows every betrayal. He isn’t oblivious, but was with you when those pests started eating away at you. He calls, “leave it to Me, trust Me with it. You don’t need to seek out the revenge, but just let your roots sink deep into My love. Let your leaves soak in my joy. It doesn’t come based on your situation, but only because I am faithful. I send rain on the just and the unjust alike. Leave your pain in my scarred hands, I understand and know. This is why you can let it go. Not because there isn’t hurt, but because you trust me to heal your hurt, and handle the one who brought hurt.” Jesus is the healing, and forgiveness is the key.
© Jena Rutan 2016. All rights reserved.
Scripture references are from the NASB.
