Scorching

 

 

   None of us had previously felt the kind of heat we got last weekend. I woke up on the third day  to the shaded part of the back yard being ten degrees hotter than our living room. In the height of the afternoon, the air measured 115 degrees. I knew there would be some casualties in the garden, and I hoped not in the hen house. All the chickens are fine, but goodness, our blueberries and some gentler greens suffered. I spent one sweaty morning trying to shade the blueberries that were in full sun- they weren't made for heat like that. Our blueberries are made to fruit and harvest completely before the hot, dry days of august. On the last weekend in June, they were full of almost-ripe berries, right on schedule for their abundant July harvest. But then unprecedented circumstances were thrust upon them, and nothing I did prevented those tender berries from scorching and shriveling and souring.

   After the baking heat passed, I went out to do my usual rounds. I like to walk the garden and survey the growth and fruit and weeds, and water it all, and I see so, so much spiritual symbolism. On my rounds I stopped at those poor blueberry bushes, and made a decision. I picked all the fruit that had died, and laid it all at the base of the plants. I touched every little berry that was supposed to be part of a beautiful harvest, acknowledged that it had died, and removed it from the plant so that the plant wouldn't waste nutrients on an already-dead harvest. 

   Wow, is that not our last 15 months?!

   I had plans for last year, dreams for last year.  Some of them can wait, and some need to simply be acknowledged as dead, removed and laid down. My heart, my family, and the life that surrounds me needs the nutrients that could so easily be tied up in a harvest I hoped for that isn't coming this year. 

   My blueberry bushes aren't dead. The leaves and stalks are alright. There will be future harvest, and even at the base of them, there are little shoots of bright, hopeful new growth. The surrender of this harvest I hoped for is not the end, it is the acknowledgement of the current circumstances mixed with hope for days to come. It is also the removal of what won't come to fruition, so that my resources can go toward growth and preparation for the next harvest. 

  We weren't made to be so isolated. We weren't made to not gather corporately. We weren't made to not touch eachother, not hug eachother, not see smiles. 2020 was our shocking, June 115 degree weather. It killed way more than people's bodies, and there is great need to acknowledge that. 

  What have you lost? What are you removing, growing, hoping for down the road? Where do you need to acknowledge that the circumstances have caused damage? Let me know how I can help, how I can pray.