Beauty Not Chosen

Recently I listened to All the Light We Cannot See, a novel by Anthony Doerr. One of its predominating themes is that life is fuller when we take in as much of the beauty that surrounds us as we can. Beauty can be found in even surprising packages, like snails, which fascinate one of the main characters in the novel. Listening to the story inspired me to be more aware of my own surroundings and to find them beautiful. Additionally, an old friend wrote to me in a message about the beauty of spring that is starting to emerge in nature and how we might see that beauty reflected in our lives. Consequently, I started to notice and to appreciate the pretty sights in our own backyard.

The yard is not one we created ourselves; we moved to this house in the middle of January and inherited the landscaping that was already present, including a few nice trees, and, most notably, rose bushes. The roses were everywhere. They edged the perimeter of the backyard and side yard and they resided in several front yard beds as well. Everywhere we turned we saw roses. They weren't exactly nice to look at, either. They were scrubby, gray, branchy, thorny things. There was no way to tell if they were even alive.

My immediate response to so many roses was less than positive. Roses would certainly not be my first, second, third, fourth, or even fifth choice in terms of landscaping. (Read: I would never choose them.) Roses are notorious for being difficult plants riddled with pests and plagued with diseases, as far as I know. Plus, they are overrated. And thorny.

Then some blooms appeared. They appeased me a bit. I looked up some information on how to take care of roses, started pruning, and decided that maybe they would be worth the work.

Now as May approaches, the roses are getting ready to kick it into high gear. More and more blooms have adorned their thorny stems. I'm appreciating their presence. After all, if they weren't there, we'd have a bare yard.

Although the roses are not what I would have chosen, I'm beginning to see and value their beauty. In much the same way, I recognize there are aspects of my life I wouldn't have chosen right now, but if I take the time to learn about them and make an effort to cultivate them, I can also value their beauty. Having a baby has been a challenge, and I would not choose to be waking up to settle a little ten month-old multiple times a night in my ideal world, but I can take from this situation many beautiful blooms: extra cuddles, the chance to provide for my daughter, the opportunity to lean heavily on my Father's arms.

Sometimes at night I hum to myself the hymn about "leaning on Jesus, leaning on Jesus, leaning on the everlasting arms." His love is sustaining me and His burden is light. This truth is sweet and beautiful to me as a rose.

Need

God made me a child and said,
   "Rest in Me."
But everything was beautiful; I couldn't see a need.
God put me in high school and said,
   "Rest in Me."
But I got it all done; there was not a need.
God put me in college and said,
   "Rest in Me."
But I guarded my sleep; I hid the need.
God moved me to a new city and put me in grad school and said,
   "Rest in Me."
But I hunted for answers and killed the need with desperate prayers.
God gave me a husband and said,
   "Rest in Me."
But someone showed me a good example, and I thought I had rested enough.
God gave me a child and said,
   "Rest in Me."
And I couldn't find myself, and I said,
   "God, where am I? Hold me."
And He was.

Try and Fail

I recently listened to Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery. When I heard Anne make the claim that "next to trying and winning, the best thing is trying and failing," I nearly fell out of my socks. I'm notorious for wanting to know with absolute certainty, one hundred percent of the time, with no exceptions, exactly what the outcomes will be in any given situation. If, somehow, I don't foresee said outcomes, or if, like sensing an impending storm, I sniff out dangerous outcomes ahead, I would sooner not attempt the task, not step into the situation, not make the decision, not go, not join in, not try. The idea that it's better to try and fail than not to try at all is simply shocking to me.

Yet I believe the idea might just be true. I don't mean in contexts involving a decision resembling gambling. Wisdom should be involved. But given the application of wisdom, what harm is there in failure? Embarrassment? Shame? Hurt? Vulnerability? Pride doesn't want me to feel these things. But what if feeling a bit embarrassed is what it takes to at least gain a new experience or learn more about life (even if it just means learning I'm not great at something)? I know learning is good, and pride isn't a valid reason to do or not do something.

Ah, yes, but my perfect world in its perfect orderly state is in jeopardy if I try with the possibility of failing. On the other hand, if I keep everything under control then nothing unexpected happens, and I can dance through my day without the slightest hint of a misstep.

Well, news flash, self: you are never really in control in the first place!

It may feel like I'm conducting the orchestra, but the Lord, the sovereign Creator, is the one who actually maintains even my ability to breathe. If I recognize this truth, maybe I can relax enough to try when there's a possibility of failing.

But why bother? What is there to gain? I think perhaps the gain is itself partly a loss: loss of fear, anxiety, and pride. The gain is also trust that's placed in God more than in myself. Maybe the gain could also be having a bit of fun. Wait, no. That can't be right.