Backroad Pruning

In a blur of last minute Memorial Day weekend plans, two of my four siblings ended up at the family cottage. So after watching my senior students walk the stage at graduation and switch their tassels over, we drove up to join the party. The family cottage is in a small town tucked among the lakes and woods in northern Michigan. I have gone to that same town and called that same stretch of lakefront mine long before I was even old enough to remember it. Up there words like history, memories, and tradition do not really exist because they are embedded and woven into everything around us. The sand, the sofas, the smells, the sounds.

As you grow up, you begin to recognize different landmarks on the five and a half hour drive north. There are markers we learned our parents used as time references that us kids tried to store away too. There are markers my mom or dad simply loved or always noticed that therefore became important to me. There are markers my sister and I always pointed out and gazed at with one another, our own little tradition. There are markers that every family member had to appreciate together no matter what was going on in the vehicle at that moment. All those markers are now embedded treasures as I drive that same route as an adult. Even to this day, right around the forty-minutes-away mark, when the scenery shifts to remote towns and back roads, the anticipation inside of me amplifies. From that point on almost everything I pass feels like a poignant and vivid landmark, refreshing and restorative.

There is one turn in the final stretch that is easy to miss, and sure enough, my husband and I missed it just this last weekend. I blame it on my lack of attention when I am in shotgun and not driving, my tendency to day dream at that point in the drive specifically, and my husband’s tendency to get distracted when he is talking enthusiastically. Missing the turn can easily be remedied by switching to a new route that preserves your ETA, but changing the route removes all those final landmarks...

When we caught our error and realized we were forced into a new route, we both went silent for a minute. The previous 24 hours had been emotional and wearing on both of us, and my husband knew what that part of the drive meant to me and how much more it would mean to me right then. Instantly, conflicting emotions silenced me. I fought tears.

It’s not even that big of a deal… it’s just part of a drive I have done thousands of times and will continue to do thousands of times.

No, it is a big deal. I was desperately looking forward to those final minutes after everything, and right now, it DOES matter; I want to share that with my husband who has done this drive only a few times.

Seriously, I am being ridiculous. I’ve got to get over stuff like this. I am such an unhealthy level of sentimental.

But really? After everything? Couldn’t I just get those much needed minutes of pure joy and solace?

This is life. Do you really want to ruin the good time you two were JUST having over 25 minutes of scenery?

I do not want to make him feel bad or guilty about this in any way.

Too late for that, sister.

Okay, it’s okay. Really. I am going to let go. It’s one gift I could give him right now.

Technically, if we would not have changed routes, we would have never seen this tiny town we didn’t know existed, and we would have never seen it for the first time TOGETHER.

Yes, I know. That internal dialogue sounds a little ridiculous. I think I even had to sit there praying for help with it as I fought back tears. I clung to that idea: we were still having a moment. I convinced myself of it. And to be honest, I am proud to say I actually did get there… I let go of what I wanted and grasped what was in front of me. I knew holding on would only ruin the potential of what was right in front of us and more than anything, I did not want to do that to my husband. I did not want to make him deal with the collateral damage of my sentimental self-detonation.

Underneath it all I just want to live a life that completely absorbs all the gifts around me. I want to squeeze out and soak in every ounce of wonder and appreciation that I possibly can. I never want to be complacent and allow all that is around me to become dull, mute, and tasteless. I never want to become immune to awe. I want to keep having new eyes for all the beauty, the story-lines, the explosions of life and redemption. I truly wouldn’t mind being known for that type of life.

But, I do not want to be known for holding on so tightly to what I know and love, that I end up missing the disguised gifts, the delayed gifts, the different gifts. I do not want to settle for listening to only the melody. I want to uncover all the harmonies; I want to be overwhelmed by the grand symphony. I do not want to be so paralyzed by change that by default, I testify a distrust in the glorious unfolding of God’s plan. Nothing is worth that cost. I want to cherish the gifts given to me but learn to hold them loosely.

On one hand, there are many areas of my life where I find myself excited by change, by newness and growth. But there are also areas where the root of nostalgia and sentimental yearning runs shockingly deep. I have to keep learning how to discern when to appreciate the strength of that root, and when to do the harder job- digging part of it up. I am discovering it is best to practice that in the small, silly, and insignificant moments. Moments that seem laughable to others are true tests for that part of me that resists change. They are moments like that one in the car this weekend after a wrong turn. Moments where I have to choose to release what was “supposed to” happen and embrace “different”.

Maybe that is God’s way of helping me practice the response of loosening my grip.

I picture those moments as the repetitions of an exercise, a tough one. It pushes me, and it can definitely be uncomfortable. They are disciplining and rehearsing what originally feels unnatural, and that type of training is only effective when repeated over and over. But, repetitions and training always serve a greater purpose, they inherently point to something coming. Those moments are my personalized practice plan to prepare for the time when the real challenges, the unexpected events, the big showdowns with change come along.

I suppose that is a form of grace…

…these moments disguised as interruptions, the allowance of temporary pain for the purpose of pruning, for preparing, and ultimately fortifying for the next storm we may never see coming.

John 15:1-2

I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit He takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit."

#prayer #pain #growing #grace