"Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away:
and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit."
~ John 15:2
When we first moved to this house, it was just Kinnard and me...yep just the two of us. (I'm really struggling at this point to not abandon the purpose of this post and just reminisce on how life used to be...you know - before the you-know-whats came along). We had a clean, beautiful, and spacious home that we were infinitely proud of and quickly fell into our stereotypical gender roles - I took care of the inside (for the most part), and the great outdoors was all his. Yea, I knew how to crank a weed eater and trim hedges, but my newly wedded husband was more than glad to handle the "man's" work. Ahhh...the bliss!
Although, he did his outdoor chores well enough, there was one little rule that I strictly enforced - "Don't touch the roses!" Doing so was punishable to the fullest extent of the law. Why? Because I loved those roses. They kind of symbolized the icing on my homeowner cake, because I felt like the queen of the castle should have a knack for tending to these most beautiful of flowers. And who knows what would have become of them if I'd turned their care over to Edward Scissorhands?
At any rate, I quickly realized that I had a green thumb, albeit lime, it was still green and proud of it I was. I'd learned a thing or two from my mom who requested my help with her beautiful blooms when I was a teen. Needless to say they weren't so beautiful to me back then, but with my own rosebush, I was obviously eager to show off what I'd learned.
The roses were pink with yellow centers, and if you happened to be anywhere nearby, you didn't have to get really close to get a whiff of their tantalizing perfume. The month of October was already upon us, but November showed no signs of freezing, so they bloomed for several weeks after we had moved in. When it finally started to show the dreary signs of winter, I was prepared. With clean, sharp gardening shears in tow, I set out one day to prune my sweet roses for our first winter. I clipped away, getting rid of all the blooms that had managed to hang on, eradicate the pale, weakened branches, remove part of the growth from the previous blooming season, and remember to cut at a 45 degree angle. Yeah, I knew what I was doing.
It wasn't a harsh winter that year, so I didn't worry about covering the now lifeless looking stalks that were left. I glanced at the remains and smiled to myself as I tucked away my shears because I knew their secret. I knew that even though they looked hopeless, they were more alive then ever before. And the following spring, they showed me just how alive they were.
