We have this plum tree in our yard. It’s a bit odd… to say the least. It has one branch that grows at a funny angle, trying desperately to reach the sun. It has a pretty obnoxious stumpy bit where another branch has failed at a similar pursuit and been cut away. The branch on the other side, well, it became a makeshift wooden trampoline for many tiny enthusiastic feet, which broke it almost all the way through.

Almost. But not quite.

Now before I go on I must explain something. We live in Bilpin. A town well known for its orchards. Beautiful trees ladened with fruit that people travel to from far and wide. Land of the Mountain Apple. Fruit trees for days. Our little deformed friend more than pales in comparison. It may not even be worth a mention.

But it is.

When spring time comes around the orchards of Bilpin are ladened with flowers. A photographers dream. God paints the trees in pink and white and yellow and green and all you see is perfect lines of beauty that would make Monet’s heart sing. You would think that, with all those beautiful specimens around He would forget about our little plum tree. It really doesn’t look like it could produce anything lovely at all.

But you would be wrong,

He doesn’t forget our tree. Come springtime He covers it in blossom, and I mean covers.. and it is so beautiful.. just as beautiful as any other tree in Bilpin, if not more so. Even the broken bit that the kids love so much is radiant with flowers. How that is even possible I don’t know. God likes to do the impossible. It’s there on its own, no orchard around, no formation in which to stand to attention, a little worse for wear, a little less than majestic.. but the bees – they love its flowers just the same. You can hear them from the house, hundreds of bees loving our tree.

And then comes summer and our tree produces the sweetest plums you will ever taste, if you are quick enough. The birds, you see, they also love our plums. They don’t see the scars on the branches or care that they don’t look quite like they’re meant to, that they’re a bit battle weary, a bit unconventional … they only care about the fruit. And despite the struggles this tree has encountered during its life, it is no less capable of doing exactly what it’s meant to do. And the birds cannot stay away. We haven’t managed to save many plums from them for years!

I think sometimes it’s easy to feel a little bit like this decrepit little plum tree. It’s easy to feel like we are invisible because maybe we are alone, that our value is somehow diminished because we don’t fit the mould. It’s easy to think that, in our raggedness, with our bruises, we will be forgotten amongst the stately and grand orchard trees, with their straight lines and their even branches. We think our broken bits and our scars and the reminders of the dead things we had to cut away will disqualify us, make us unworthy, invisible, incapable of doing what we are created to do, of producing anything of any worth at all.

But we are wrong.

He still sees us. He enables us despite our shortcomings. He gives us purpose when we feel alone, He makes us radiant with flowers, and the bees still come..

And in the summertime we too can bear fruit, regardless of what state our branches are in. Even when life has tried to break us almost all the way through.

Almost. But not quite.

Our scars will produce something beautiful, something worthy, something valuable, something perfect, if we keep reaching towards the Son.

 

Words.

There is nothing in the world like them. Words are a gift. Words are a weapon. Words give meaning to life. Words take life away. They are ethereal in their ability to uplift. They are heavy with the weight of what they mean.

Life. Death. In the power of the tongue.

For as long as I can remember I have been in love with words. Stories and lyrics and poetry and prose. Reading them, writing them, sticking them on my walls, covering my books in them. Other peoples fantastic ability to craft sentences that you feel in your soul. My own words trying to give meaning to what’s in mine.

Reading works by literary geniuses such as Emily Dickinson and Charles Dickens, Robert Frost and the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen and Wilkie Collins.. escaping to the worlds of J R R Tolkien, and C S Lewis.. marvelling at the chaotic universe of George R R Martin and my life being forever changed by Markus Zusak and his book thief.. to name a few..

I wish I could sit down with each of them and thank them for being my friends.

I have always wanted to write. I remember scribbles on a page when I was just a little girl.. poems and songs, essays and stories that my english teacher was foolish enough to commend. Maybe one day I will write a novel.. what a dream that would be.

But for now I will write about the things I know. The things I see. The things I’ve experienced. The children I’ve been blessed with. The role of ‘mother’ and ‘wife’ that I’m still trying to figure out. The God I serve and the people I love.

I know there are many others.. other people writing similar things. But not the same things. If the words I write can impact just one person, one person who may not read someone else’s words but who happens upon mine, well then, job well done. I don’t pretend to have all (or any) of the answers.. to know how to do this.. to have anything at all worthwhile to say. But I do have a passion and a heart to help people feel like they’re maybe not alone, to encourage and to uplift.. to write things that matter.. even just to one person.. even just to me.

And so I am going to try..

Welcome to my blog.

Life is full of light and shade, mountains and valleys, blessing and heartache, love and pain.. but you can’t have the blossom without the rain..