I’ve been working on another book. Whoo! The idea of abiding pops up a couple times–no surprise, right? I was reminded of a story I wrote a few years ago, “The Branch.” It’s included in Verse, a collection of songs and poems, but I thought I would post it here (again). You can also download it from my free resources page.
THE BRANCH
He came, as he always did, and looked over my branches. The vinedresser let his fingers rustle through the leaves, feeling each one’s health. He picked some fruit, bounced it in the palm of his hand checking its weight. Approving, he inhaled its fragrance. A smile appeared on his face, and he took a bite. “Delightful,” he whispered to himself. He continued his careful inspection. Each connection between branch and vine was checked. Reaching in the front pouch of his apron, he pulled out a handful of fresh soil and patted it around the base of the vine. Nodding with satisfaction he stood up and step backed to see the whole vine. His glance turned to the weakest branch. He’d been watching it for a while. “It’s time,” the vinedresser said, finally turning towards me. “This branch has to go.”
I was sitting close by on a clay pot turned upside down, watching his every move. The way he cares for my branches is unmatched. He sees details that I cannot. He addresses the cries of the vine that I fail to hear because he and the vine are in complete unison. I am in the vine and the vine is in me, but I’m still learning to be one with him. I often offshoot my ideas instead of letting the flow of the vine create within me. His patience is unsurpassable, waiting on me to surrender. He watches me progress. And for reasons I cannot explain, I think he enjoys the process as much as the arrival.
I knew the branch the vinedresser was speaking of. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I knew it was not okay. I even tried to fix it. Perhaps, I tried hiding it is a more accurate statement. I hung hopes on it like Christmas tree lights. I adorned it with feelings and dreams and ideas giving it the illusion of life. I didn’t notice… I chose not to see that it was dead. I remember when it sprouted forth in an explosive season of newness. I watched it grow with anticipation. But that branch never produced. It only grew in weakness and frailty.
“It’s time,” he repeated, drawing my attention back to him. The vine, feeling the drain and heaviness of the dead branch, was quick to agree. “But…,” I intervened, “I really like that branch. Remember when it started? Remember that season? It was exciting! Can’t we nurture it, give it special food?”
The vinedresser inspected the branch again, “Come, see.” He showed me how the connection between this branch and vine was not true and not secure. “This branch has no future.” His words pierced my heart but his voice was filled with truth and compassion that I could not deny. The truth is, he wanted it to be a strong branch too, if for no other reason than he cares about the things that I care about. But, there was no denying that this branch, as loved and celebrated as it was, was dead. The vine spoke up, pushing back the leaves of a healthy branch. “See what life looks like?” he reminded me. The contrast was clear, and I was able to see the reality of death in the branch I loved.
Standing by my side, talking with me as a confidant, “When the branch cracks and breaks off, and it will break off, it will pull fruitful branches down with it as it falls to the earth. This dead branch poses a threat to the life flowing from the vine. This branch has to go.” There was a pause, he and the vine waited for my consent. There was a tinge of pain in my heart bringing tears to my eyes. I looked at the vinedresser, a long gaze, and relented, “It’s time. I trust you.”
The vinedresser leaned over, kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear, “Your surrender is beautiful.” I stepped back, bracing myself for… I’m not sure exactly. The unknown maybe. What will it be like without this branch? Or, was it the pain I was anticipating? Although the branch was not connected to the vine, it was connected to something in me. Would it hurt? I tensed up again. The vine reached around me in comfort and strength, his embrace was like a seat for me, replacing the need to brace myself. We watched the master gardener do his work.
He wasn’t hasty or brutal in his approach. Tenderly, he removed the dreams hanging on the limb. He placed each one in a pocket that was on the inside his apron, right next to his heart. “Don’t worry, child, I’ll carry those for you,” the vinedresser assured me. But my concern heightened again as he began to unwrap the hope from the branch. “Careful!” I cried out. The vine gave extra support at the tremble in my voice. The vinedresser stopped. “Come, help me,” always inviting me. The vine lowered me down and loosened its embrace. I walked over to the vinedresser. He placed my hand in his. Together we removed the string of hope twisted around the frail branch with measured intention, not damaging a single thread. “Your hope has no future on this branch, but in me it is safe,” the vinedresser softly spoke as he pulled out the top of his apron making a cup. “Will you give me your hope?” I raised the coiled hope over the rim of his apron and lowered it down on the inside. Peaking over the edge, I watched my hope take its place.
To my great surprise, the other side of the vinedresser’s apron wasn’t a dark, stale, forgotten storage-bin. My hope fell into his chest—alive with a rhythm of joy pulsing throughout and flashes of faithfulness shooting round and round. I lost my breath in awe and my fears to wonderment. I looked at him, his eyes fixed on me. “Your hope is my treasured possession, child,” he sung in tune and time with the sounds emitting from his heart. “I will not disappoint you.”
Undone, I felt the vine surround me again. He tugged me, and I fell back into him. We watched. At the place where the branch was untruly connected, the vinedresser gently breathed. A word drove out from his mouth like a sword and severed the dead branch from the vine. He crumbled what was detached into the palm of his hand until only ashes remained. The vine rejoiced, “Faithful are the wounds of a friend.” And rejoicing again, every leaf of the vine joined in and swayed carefree.
More fascinated than before, I watched the vinedresser spit into the palmful of ashes and stir with his finger until a salve was formed. The vine leaned in and explained, “He wastes nothing.” The vinedresser placed the emollient over the fresh cut with precision. He held his hand perfectly in place until every crack and empty space was filled. All at once I released a breath that I had been holding unaware. “Finally,” I exhaled. I stood from the embrace of the vine. I stood in absoluteness, feeling the energy of his life flow freely within every branch of mine—within every branch of his.
The vinedresser lifted his hand, bent over the salve-soaked cut and gently breathed. Stepping back he looked over my branches once more and then turned towards me. His countenance was wise. I wanted to look away, but there was a slight, mischievous even, smile on his face that kept me watching. Sitting down he put his arm around me. I looked at him, still in awe of who he was and how he cared. I felt something genuine rising in my soul, and taking flight a “Thank you” released from my mouth. “Watch this,” he said.
From the very place the dead branch had been cut off, a new bud began to come forth on the vine, shooting through the salve. It was tender and bright green and unfolding with promise. A child-like wave of wonder washed over me, “What will it be?” With a father-like tease, he told me, “Wait and see.” I couldn’t help but reflect on the day. From beginning to end the vinedresser was constant with care and delight, wisdom and compassion, gentleness and purpose; the vine remained near with strength and ease and humility, always rejoicing. And with a content excitement, a hopeful trust, I exclaimed, “I can’t wait!” The vinedresser leaned in once again, “Neither can we.”
summer 2019
Brave Sparrow 
Such a refreshing word of encouragement. Thank you for sharing.
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