A Branch Shall Grow

There are real flower people.  They are master gardeners, prizewinning horticulturalists, and botany-dabbling enthusiasts.  My children's paternal great-grandfather was such a one.  The estate he managed neighbored those of the Great Names of American Industry, and it eventually sold to one of the kings of Morocco.  Central Park and surrounding botanical works of art were projects he sandwiched between overseeing the New Jersey gardens which beautified and provided for a community through the economic straits of war.  Recently, I was shown an old newspaper article about his life after retirement to sunny Florida, and there I found a nugget of non-biological kinship that spanned our disparate levels of vocation and mastery.  He cultivated orchids.
I am a dabbling devotee of flowers, but my particular fondness is for orchids.  They have an unsightly root system that does not stay properly restrained, the leaf is prone to awkward size and direction, and long periods of dormancy almost make the months of blooming insufficient.  Even when the stalk is hung with buds, it is not the beauty contained that captivates me -- rather, it is the unfolding of such dramatic shape and color where there had been a dry, seemingly barren, dead stalk just days before. I have "rescued" plants headed for the rubbish heap because I know the latent life concealed by dark, twisted, floppy leaves and brown stems.  I'm not even particularly fond of the flower of an orchid, being more of a dahlia or garden rose girl.  But the potential for life that is running beneath a dead surface concentrates my attention and care with an intensity those blatant beauties can never elicit.  I tend as sparingly as the most finicky orchid could desire, and I wait.  Ignoring the spectacle of disarray, I keep my charges in a prominent place, daily noting the tinge of the roots, the levelness of the foliage, the precarious moisture balance of the pots.  Always, the change surprises me when I have settled into the waiting.  

So, it is the Advent season.  
Today is the last day of the week of Hope, and hope to me is much like an orchid.  It is an abandoned, withered, ugly thing left-for-dead on the back doorstep, but brought in to be rescued, to be nurtured, to be watered and fed and given sunlight until -- at last! -- a small bright green shoot emerges from the dark tangle of deadness.
It is my heart, prone to wander to the lesser things that were never meant to sustain, shriveled and exposed on the compost pile until gathered close in the hands of the One who made me, who searched until He found me, rescued me and brought the brilliant color of life to the dead places.
It is this beautiful world, broken and dark and helplessly fettered to decay, for whom the Eternal One bound Himself to humanity that He might bring healing and light and make all things new.  Hope is the waiting, with expectation, for redemption and wholeness to triumph despite the devastation all around.
The article about the retired gentleman in Florida describes his crowning accomplishment of cultivating and naming a new strain of orchid.  Most astounding to the reporter was the source material for his horticultural efforts:  the garbage containers of garden centers and florists.
A new creation from discarded and abandoned things.
A greenhouse filled with verdant loveliness that was once mangled and twisted bits of debris.
Hope.

Behold a branch is growing
Of loveliest form and grace,
As prophets sung, foreknowing;
It springs from Jesse's race
And bears one little Flower
In midst of coldest winter,
At deepest midnight hour.

This Flower, whose fragrance tender
With sweetness fills the air,
Dispels with glorious splendor
The darkness everywhere.
True Man, yet very God;
From sin and death He saves us
And lightens every load.

Burden Carry

I went to CrossFit a week or so ago -- "went" as in a one-time occurrence.  It was every gym class nightmare on steroids.
The fun began with a ten mile trek that may have only been one mile, but a very long one that went straight uphill.  As it was the first event of the ninety minute class one could postulate that I was at my strongest and had no excuse for such a gasping, flailing performance.  In my defense, I had no idea how far beyond my limits I would be dragged. 
The run was so special it had a name, "Burden Carry", and each duo was responsible for taking a sandbag along on their Saturday morning adventure.  Except in our case it was a heavy ball, because I wasted prep time thinking the brief introduction to torture apparatus was the actual workout. 
So, while the other teams slung weights across shoulders, I hobbled with our load up in the air, or at chest level (which was the furthest I could heave).  
I was mouth and nose breathing, desperately searching for some oxygen while my legs bellowed, "What is THIS?!"
Mid-stride I thought I might just die before my foot touched ground again.
"Take the burden," I whispered.
And then came the magic.
She did.  Immediately.
Without the weight pressing down I could make it another three yards, and then feel my lungs blessedly full and empowered.
"I can take the burden again," I offered, gasping.
"Sure?"
"Sure."
I only lasted four or five strides before foisting it back on my buddy, but we kept it up all the way to the home base, where we were not greeted with cheers of victorious accomplishment, but bustled to the next impossible task in Column 1 of 3.  The subsequent hour blurred in a haze of rowing and climbing and throwing and jumping and squatting and lifting, but that first portion retained all its clarity. 
Agony notwithstanding, the endorphin flood was unparalleled and poetic implications saturated my mind three days later when I was able to walk and sit with the full cooperation of my muscles.
Upon reflection I realized the other teams distributed work by direction -- one carried out and one carried home.  If that had been a requirement we could never have finished, because I was not able.  But our little shuttle system was a mini-pilgrimage, an image of communal burden sharing.
It is a beautiful picture.  
I have never before voluntarily entered into a time that required that extent of physical fortitude, and I suspect I might wait a year before considering attending again.  However, like most human beings, I know what it is to find myself overwhelmed by trials and challenges, unable to continue on.
When I am far enough beyond pride of appearance to honestly gasp, "take the burden," there is somehow always someone right there, climbing alongside me.  I don't get to stop running uphill, but I am freed to catch my breath. 
It is God's gracious provision in this broken world-- for us to live in community as we pilgrimage through, bolstering one another's faith, keeping company in prayer, and sacrificially sharing the load.

"Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!"
Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good.  Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints and seek to show hospitality.
Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another.