The Kunkelfam hit the road this week. . . .
And the road cried out in pain. . . .
Horrible, horrible joke. For that, I apologize. But you have to read on because what follows is a true story (only the names have been changed to protect the blackberry bushes):
We've begun our pilgrimage and just finished some time with Mom Vicki and Doug out at their place south of Eugene.
We did lots of things together, but the most enjoyable by far was tilling up the old garden plot. It was a great day, with sharp, warm, June sun beating the clouds away and a little breeze playing with the trees. Mom has a rather large plot of garden that she's taking over (it had lain waste for years, the former owners never did much with it), and we had a roto tiller, rakes, gloves, shovels--the works. We were ready to go!
Mom had done the prelim work on the blackberry bushes (the State of Oregon consists of a single big blackberry bush, I'm convinced) by chopping them down to the ground, but you could still see their stubby, inch-thick trunks poking out of the soil every few feet. I entered the battle with great relish, removed my shirt to show disdain at their measly attempts to fight me, kicked them with my foot until one of them stuck me with a rather sharp needle, and presto!--the battle was joined.
The tiller revved up with a cough that sounded like a cross between a smoker with bronchitis and a harley davidson, I winced in pain, stuck a finger in my ear, and it died. The great warrior brushed the tears of pain from his eyes, got some cotton swabs from his mother-in-law, stuffed them in his ears, pulled the starter cord once again, and lunged forward with rage upon the first root.
The pulleys whirred, the engine screamed, and the tines dug deep into the earth. I waded into the first blackberry and the tiller choked a little, whined a little, paused, coughed, and churned up a blackberry plant. . . . except. . . . not all of it.
Anyone who's lived around native Oregon blackberries knows this like a fundamental truth of the universe: there's no getting rid of them. You just take them down as far as they can go, and then you stay on top of them with everything you've got.
Paul reminded me of this in Romans (my reading a few weeks ago that leaped to mind as I battled the blackberry roots) when he talked about dealing with the "root of the sinful flesh." I wondered at the time why he called it a root. But now I think I get it.
The flesh (old man, sinful nature, whatever you want to call it--its the part of you that yells out "NO!" to God) is never completely gone while we're in this body. But there are ways to make sure that it remains just a root and never a thorn-heavy vine that consumes your life.
I think of what it took to create that garden space: first, Mom had to decide that she wanted a garden there. She tallied up her time commitments, her needs for vegetables, but mostly just her passion for growing things, and decided she was planting a garden in this old patch. It starts with a reckoning, a drawing a line in the sand, a decision that this patch of land (this heart of mine) is going to grow vegetables and fruit, not blackberry vines.
Second, you need helpers.
Third, you need to keep deciding you want the garden there (forget the feeling-driven life because that will keep you inside watching cable or surfing the internet or living off the high you get from your fantasies)
Fourth, you need some tools.
Fifth, you need to keep deciding you want the garden (get the point now?).
Sixth, you get to work with the friends and the tools.
Seventh, you recognize who's in charge: the blackberries are on their way out, despite their adamant roots of steel, and the luscious tomatoes and juicy cucumbers and melons are on their way in. It's your garden, for God's sake! (He gave it to you)
Seven is a good, complete number, so I'll stop there. . . .
Rest of the story: I beat those blackberry roots to a pulp, beat my hands to a pulp, the sun beat my back to a pulp, and I emerged joyful and painful as a helper in Mom's task. There's nothing like putting in a garden. It's SO worth it.
Wherever you're at in life, I want to blow a little breeze on the coals in your heart: It's clear to me as I read the Word of God that the old way of life is on its way out. And that's REALLY good news. For me, personally, it was a HUGE transformation when I realized my identity wasn't caught up in the battle over the blackberry vines, but that the Great Gardener was with me and called me to be with Him. The battle became fun then, instead of drudgery. I started getting into the joy of ripping out the old to make way for the new. The fears began to leave, and God's Spirit brought something fresh to take their place. . . .
You may be at the very beginning, trying to decide if its worth it. If you step in, the promise is that you'll get all the help you need, moment by moment, to deal with it. You may be at the end of the cleanup, waiting for fruit to grow. Stick with it. The rains come; the sun rises each day; and without fail (barring slugs and aphids) the tomatoes will grow!
Thanks for the letting me "be the man," Mom, and push that tiller around your garden all afternoon. In more ways than one, it was good for me.
