I am taking care of a bonsai tree that is not my own. His name is Shammah, which means Yahweh is There. He sits on my end table as I write, drinking in the evening light from my lamp and growing. I wonder for a moment if he is tired from growing. I feel tired. I get done with some days and I feel as if I've gone nothing but try to get off the ground, try to grow out of these roots that keep me planted in the earth.
The earth can be harsh sometimes, after all, for a little tree. It can bring drought, and floods, and horrible scorching heat. It can bring frost that kills silently in the night, parasites that eat the lifesource right out from underneath, and other plants that crowd out a little tree, pushing it out of the way so that it cannot reach the sunlight.
Sometimes, says the little tree, I feel as if I weren't made for this valley. I dream of a place where the sun shines and no weed will ever crowd out my sunlit joy. I look at the mountains and think that I should be there instead of here, where moth and rust destroy, and thieves break in and steal. Why do I feel such deep sorrow at being apart from a place I have looked for all my life but never been?
But little trees, you are not of this Kingdom.
See, we are little trees in our Father's garden, seated in heavenly places. He tenderly prunes, loves, and cares for us, feeds and waters us, speaks kind words to us that we would grow strong and tall, unwavering in the storms of earth. Remember when He told you that the lilies of the field are more beautiful than Solomon ever was? And you are so much more important than they...
Sleep soundly, little tree. Rest and grow. Shammah.
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