Too Far Gone...

Don't believe the lies.

Oh, I mean they are convincing, and sometimes even based on your reality.

You know them like the back of your hand.

The ones tailored to fit your insecurities like a glove.

Sometimes they come floating in like a stray cloud, soft and seemingly harmless.

Only blocking the sun a little.

Other times they move in like a storm front, in droves, and you're caught in the howling mayhem of their force.

And then there are the dripping lies.

That one that you've been listening to for longer than you can remember.

You can almost ignore it.

But in the quiet of your heart, in the moments when you get still enough, it's there.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Failure. Hopeless. Too Far Gone...

Too Far Gone....

That's one that likes to slither into my thoughts pretty regularly.

But enough about that... for now.

Yesterday I was gardening.

At the first signs of Spring my husband and I get the urge to go outside and poke around in the dirt.

Botanical Therapy. 

It's good for us. Body and Soul.

I find myself pondering life and praying a lot when I work outside.

There are things I love about it, and things that I honestly wish were not in existence.

For example: I think stinging nettles are from the pit.

Conversely, I love Hens and Chicks.

Hens and Chicks are like little roses gone succulent in my mind, and there isn't anything more adorable in my opinion than the little babies that shoot off from under the mother plant.

Hence their name.

So, yesterday I set out to attend to the Hens and Chicks.

I had received a whole passel of them, like a third of a large black trash bag full, last Fall.

It was so exciting to me!

The moment I saw the ad for free Hens and Chicks I jumped on it.

I've always loved them.

Really loved them.

I had large containers of them years ago that just went wild in the California heat.

But last fall I dropped the ball with these.

I live with chronic health issues, (that's another blog post), and last fall things were headed downhill... again.

When we head down one of these trails my energy levels bottom out, my motivation nearly disappears, and strength and memory don't show up to do their job.

My sweet husband asked a few times what I would like to do with them, and the first few times I said something in the neighborhood of, "Oh, I'll get them in the pots soon."

But it didn't happen.

And finally they were carted off to sit in a corner by the trash cans.

A monument to failure and neglect.

They sat there until yesterday.

I remembered a few days ago that I had planned to put them in the ground last fall, and that maybe that black bag was still out there.

I had a moment of guilt wash over me when I decided I would go look and see if there was anything left worth rescuing. Just a moment.

You know, the guilt that comes that has nothing to do with the present at all but is tied to a whole paper chain of failures from eons ago.

Yeah that.

But I shook it off and headed back to the trash, gardening gloves on (stinging nettles are the most potent teachers), and hopeful tray in hand.

(It's handy when your health care team finally nails down what's going on with you and you can begin to sort of get some ground back memory-wise.)

I rounded the corner of our garage and trained my eyes on the spot where the bag had been.

I didn't see it.

Maybe my dear husband finally threw it away to save me from the pain of another incomplete project, of seeing these things I love go to waste.

He's like that.

Loves to shield me from unnecessary pain.

But this time he hadn't.

The bag was there, much smaller than it had been last fall.

Much.

A puddle of rainwater had formed on the top, and the mouth of the bag was a large frown similar to an unhappy toad.

I set my tray down on the grass beside me, and opened the bag.

My heart sank.

It was a mass of decaying goo.

There were worms and slugs noshing on rotten roots and squishy black masses.

I'm pretty sure at this point if I hadn't grown up a consummate tom-boy I would have gagged and tied that bag up for good.

But I didn't.

I felt an urging to dig around in that pile of muck and sludge.

I felt some small hope that I could find maybe just one little plant that was still viable.

So I reached in and grabbed a mound of rot...

And upon touching it I felt something firm!

I turned the mass over in my hand and there were three perfectly good Hens staring back at me!

Not just one....

Oh yes, they were covered with muck....

They looked as if they had showered in cow excrement.

(There, that's more accurate.)

But they were not just viable, they were lovely.

So I heaped them on my tray and began to dig through the rest of the sludge with renewed hope and a determination that I would save any that were retrievable.

I spent thirty minutes digging meticulously through the smelly goo, working my way through knots of worms, fascinated by the sheer girth of a green and black spotty slug I encountered.

It was search and rescue on a small botanical scale.

When I had finally come to the end of the bag, the bottom was filled with rainwater and a black murky soup from the decay, so I pulled up the top and headed off with my HEAP of plants.

I got the hose and set up a small metal table to begin the process of clearing off the filth and rotten petals.

Tedious work.

My tender husband helped me.

Some of the petals had become so engorged with the excess water that they literally fell off when we touched them.

Some petals were pure white from lack of sun.

A few of the Hens taproots were gone and had only thread-like roots left to obtain nutrients.

I started out with my gloves on, already covered with the glop and mess from the bag, I worked at getting all the decay off the Hens and separated knots of roots to free each plant.

And then came the moment when I needed to take the gloves off....

The tiniest Chicks needed to have my bare hands to work with them.

There was just no way to feel all the small ridges and avoid damaging them further behind the barrier of the gloves.

So off they came.

I continued to work on the little plants, the rot getting all over my hands as I removed the slimy yuck from their roots.

As I gave each one a final rinse I smiled at their beauty.

It didn't matter that the overspray was covering my own feet with their sludge.

It didn't matter that some were only a fraction of the size that they started out to be due to petals that couldn't take the pressure.

It didn't matter that some had grown crookedly straining for any chance of light in that disgusting bag.

No.

They were alive!

Totally usable.

In need of care? Yes.

In need of planting and watering? Yes.

In need of time and a Gardener that remembers them? Yes.

And they have it...

What joy! What satisfaction!

What botanical redemption....

The experience spoke to my soul. The deep down part of me that for the most part doesn't get any air time.

I have felt too far gone.

November 1st of 1991 I felt that way for sure... That night that Jesus saved my body and soul.

But it wasn't true then...

And it's not true now.

There are situations in my life that feel too far gone, relationships that are fractured, health issues that are mind-numbingly complicated, some days it's just the tasks that pile one upon another until I become so overwhelmed it's tempting to hang up an 'Out to Lunch' sign and not come back....

But feelings and truth are rarely friends.

I feel overwhelmed, but the truth is that in Christ I have access to unlimited strength and peace.

I feel hopeless about shattered relationships, but the truth is that Jesus is the restorer of the seemingly impossible.

I feel weak and unwell, but the truth is that in His time and His way He will heal me. 

The Lord is all about the search and rescue.

It's who He is.

There is never too much sludge.

Too much wasted possibility.

To many slimy worms lurking about.

Too much time gone....

He comes in and gently begins the process of redeeming.

Even the most delicate are safe with Him.

Redeeming it all.

With the pure, clean, life-giving water of His word.

And His own tender hands...