Jeremiah 17:7-8 compares those who trust in God to riparian trees, planted near the river. It reads, "Such trees are not bothered by the heat, or worried by the long months of drought. Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit."
Never. Stop. Producing. Fruit.
There is a part of me that hears those last four words and begins to itch with shame over the seeming emphasis on "producing".
Another part of me hears "never stop" and immediately wishes for Saturday morning.
However, when I hear "fruit", I start thinking, "So...what is fruit? And how much fruit do I need to be producing in order to be considered productive?"
I'm a gardener. No matter whether it's tomatoes or squash, every time one of my plants begins to not just blossom, but fruit, I get excited. Indeed if a tomato plant that's offered virtually nothing all summer suddenly surprises me with a shiny red treasure, it's not long before I tell someone--usually my husband--that my sad little plant produced something. And then I drag him outside to see that, yes, indeed, I grew a thing. It's a big deal. I celebrate these moments.
Sometimes, my plants don't produce much. It's not terribly surprising--I live in Tucson, Arizona. This place is like boot camp for gardeners. If a person can learn to adapt their thumb to be green here--a person can grow plants anywhere. No kidding. This place is HOT and DRY, and will crush your gardening dreams like peanut shells on the dance floor of an expensive steak restaurant.
If, despite these dry and dusty conditions, a plant grows, it's practically a miracle. If that same plant produces a fruit, it borders on a phenomenon. We expect growing to be hard here...so we celebrate even the tiniest fruit. We have to.
For so many reasons, this past month in our home has been a lot like growing things in Tucson.
Tough.
But when my son got to school on time last Friday, it was a small victory. Believe me, it was fruit. Every morning for the past month--with the exception of the very first day of school--it has been a battle to get our son out of the door. No casualties in this battle--except to my pride--as I am THAT parent that brings their kid to school late. Every. Single. Day.
C'mon, Mom. Can't you get your kid here on time?
If people only knew what an accomplishment getting him to school at all really is. Believe me, it is fruit. It's been a looooong month of drought, and I am celebrating as much as I can. I have to choose to look at the fruit and not the shriveled, dusty vines alongside it.
So, maybe say a prayer for me. No matter what happens tomorrow morning, I'm going to look for the fruit in the situation, and make a point of celebrating it. Tiny, tiny successes--that's the kind of fruit I can never stop producing.
God willing.
