God
is in details, I am supposed to believe, but I was having trouble finding him
inside that lemon tree.
Actually,
I didn’t even realize the darn thing was a tree. It looked like a plant,
although a tree is a plant, I’ve since learned.
“You
mean to tell me that’s a lemon tree?” I incredulously asked my wife. “It looks
like a plain ol’ plant to me.” (“And a scrawny one at that,” but I kept my
assessment to myself, for Lori seemed attracted to the tree, for some reason.)
Our
son, Harrison, had left it, along with several other plants, with us when he
went for a brief visit that turned into a sabbatical in Oklahoma.
“What
are we supposed to do with all these plants?” I asked Lori, deliberately
showing my frustration with the idea that we had suddenly become foster parents
for plants I wasn’t particularly attracted to.
“Water
‘em, silly,” she said.
And
so she did, but I was determined to keep my distance, because getting involved
is the first step to having feelings for something or someone, which was what I
wanted to avoid in these plants that were taking up space in my house.
But
I noticed that the plants: a monstera, a Christmas cactus, and a schefflera, had
actually brought some color to the drab corner of the room, which was their
assigned residence on our house’s second floor. After a few weeks, their leaves
seemed greener, bringing new life to the upstairs family room, now void of
activity since the kids had vacated the place.
I
made sure the blinds were opened for the plants during the day so they could
get plenty of light, moving them out of the corner to catch the sun’s premium
rays.
I
even started talking to them. “My aren’t you looking chipper today,” or, “How
do you like that sunshine?” or “Another cloudy winter day, hang in there.”
But
I had no such fond affection for the lemon tree. For one thing, Lori thought it
would get better light if it had its own space on the kitchen cabinet, far from
the hoi polloi relegated to the
second floor.
“Besides,
it looks better down here,” Lori defended it.
I
silently disagreed.
But
I was under conviction for my ill feelings toward that plant, so I thought I
would give it a try and tenderly touched one of its leaves. I’ll be danged if that
doggone lemon tree didn’t bite me. I know “prick” not “bite” is the proper
word, but I could have sworn I felt teeth.
I
was tempted to slap Ms. Lemon Tree up the side of its branch, which seemed to
be asking, “How dare you? Do I KNOW you?”
I
withdrew in embarrassment, cowed by a lemon tree, and even worse, out of the
corner of my eye I saw Lori suppressing a laugh, confirming my suspicion that
they were in cahoots.
Then
it happened, several days after the lemon tree snapped at my hand.
“Quick,
come look,” I heard Lori shout from the far end our house.
I
rushed to her aide, ready to help.
Had
the dogs tracked in yellow snow, or worse? Had I left the oven on and burned
the fish we were having for dinner? Had the hot water heater exploded?
It
was none of these catastrophes.
The
lemon tree had grown a foot almost overnight, and Lori was elated.
And
it was in that moment that I heard it.
“I’m
still in the details, even in this lemon tree,” God seemed to be saying.
God
spoke to Moses from a burning bush.
I
suppose I could settle for a lemon tree.
God
had been working inside, invisibly, miraculously, moving deep within that lemon
tree, all the while I had all but been cursing it. Just because I didn’t
recognize God’s presence didn’t mean it wasn’t there, forming that tree into what
it was and would become: a tree with the potential to produce lemons that Lori
would love putting on the fish we would eat, a tree whose fruit someone could
enjoy in iced tea on a hot July day, a tree whose beauty I could admire in the
dead of winter.
God
was and is at work in that lemon tree, and in many, many other things as well,
if only I would put on the eyes of faith to see it.
That
was the day things changed between the lemon tree and me.
Now,
I talk to her, water her, and make sure she has enough sunshine.
But
I still keep my hands to myself when I’m around her.
