When The Vine Withers
I’ve awoken the past two weeks to the roar of bulldozers and the beep beep beep of construction vehicles in my front yard. It’s very unsettling. The city is replacing the ancient sewer and water pipes in the older neighborhoods, a daunting task that will apparently be our background noise for the next several months.
Yesterday before I even made it to the coffee pot a crew of guys in hard hats had already dug a 10-foot deep gaping hole in the space between our houses. By the end of the day our front walkway and lush St. Augustine lawn lay in a pile next to the mailbox. The workers smile apologetically when they see me looking like I’m going to burst into tears. This is the lawn we’ve mowed and watered, weeded and cultivated for years, just haphazardIy rolled into a ball and set aside for who knows what.
They inch closer and closer to the pecan trees that have been here much longer than the sewer pipes and I can feel my blood pressure rising. These trees framing our driveway are what we love about old town Celina. They’re how we mark the seasons. Our shade in the summers, our fall color, and the majestic backdrop for moonlit winter nights.
The guy who might be in charge assures me they’re going to protect the tree roots but they stand around a lot and make phone calls as if they’re not sure what to do next, which is not inspiring a lot of confidence.
I realize in this moment I’ve been more distraught over my disrupted yard than I am over our disrupted world.
Through all this we’ve learned the city is preparing to widen our street. It will soon encroach another five feet or so onto our already tiny front yard, pushing the sidewalk to within just a few feet of the porch steps. The knot in the pit of my stomach grows as deep as the pit in my yard. We feel invaded and powerless as our home and Alyssa’s home next door seem to be losing value by the day. It looks more like a war-torn country out here than the sweet little neighborhood I love.
All this has me feeling anxious and off-kilter and fighting mad. After a restless night I crawl out of bed before dawn and hide out in the living room for some crying out to God time.
In true Fatherly fashion, He points me to words of wisdom and truth and begins setting things right. He first reminds me of His words to Jonah when Jonah was sulking over the disappearing vine. What right do you have to get angry about this shade tree? “You’ve been concerned about this vine, though you did not tend it or make it grow… But Nineveh has more than 120,000 people who cannot tell their right hand from their left. Should I not be concerned about that great city?” Jonah 4:9-11
Ouch. I realize in this moment I’ve been more distraught over my disrupted yard than I am over our disrupted world. I’m always asking God to align my heart with His, to break my heart for what breaks His, and somehow I think He is infinitely more concerned about a lost and hurting world than about my St. Augustine grass.
Does He care about my home and family and things that matter to me? Absolutely. But every once in a while we get one of those a-ha moments where truth comes into focus a little more clearly. This one calls me back to the question, what really matters here? Which things are temporary and which things are eternal? If the bulk of my time and energy is invested into something that can burn to the ground or blow away in a tornado or be dug up and hauled off, then my heart is not aligned with His.
Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; sureIy I have a delightful inheritance. Ps. 16:5-6
Oh believe me, I’m still going to fight for those trees and for the charm of this oId neighborhood, but at the same time I’ll be giving thanks for the life we have, for the spaces we share. Expressing gratitude that we’re not actually living in a war-torn country but in a thriving community with an abundance of clean water flowing in pipes just outside our front door. I think much of the world would consider that miraculous.
