My left hand holds a tiny crimson bud. Tightly closed, petals wrapped in and on each other. Glorious scarlet bursting forth into life. Sweet & fragrant in my hand.
“Innocent as a rose” The metaphor repeats through the ages of time.
Innocent and Pure.
But what of innocence stolen? What of beauty marred? Of purity defiled? What, when the thorn pierces flesh and causes crimson blood to spill? What then?
The rose crushed and bruised. Broken by the grasp of evil. Plucked too soon. No longer destined to open, spread petals, releasing fragrance and beauty and pollen and life. A rose plucked, drying, shriveling, shrinking in slow death.
Can the rose be restored? Can she be reattached, unbruised?
“I am the vine, and you are the branches” He whispers to my soul. But what of branches severed? What of innocence cut off, cast aside, trampled underfoot?
Who would want the dying plucked rose?
“And if they do not persist in unbelief, they will be grafted in
for God is able to graft them in again.” Romans 11:25
There is One. The Gardner, skilled at making things grow. He wants the severed rose. Longs for her even. He wants her not for the ash heap, but for life and beauty. He wants to cut the vine, mar the healthy and slip in the broken. Bind it up with tape and water. He cuts open the vine and binds life to death, transfusing Himself into that which was cast off.
And she heals.
And she grows.
And she opens up.
Releases her fragrance, pollenates her world.
He cuts the vine… He cuts the vine…
Father, graft me into You. I don’t want to be cut off, tightly closed in on myself. I want to blossom. Open up. Shine. I have persisted in unbelief. Forgive my foolish, faithless heart that has believed that You can’t heal the severed rose. Place me in the vine! Thank You for allowing Yourself to be broken so that I can be healed.