Beauty/Ashes

I’ve been watching the plants in my apartment die slowly for the past few weeks. They started off well enough, really beautiful, making everything look cozy. Deanna and I painted pots in different colors, rearranged places for our plants to live, and were thrilled with the way everything looked. However, they went the way of many of my previous plants, succumbing to my incredible inability to keep things alive. True confession: I have a black thumb. The ones we’ve saved from their sad fate (and some that haven’t been saved) have been relocated to the front porch, where we were hoping direct sunlight and more rain would enliven them. It’s still touch and go.

Sometimes I feel like these plants trace the development of so many other things in my life. Relationships I’ve neglected are turning brown and fading quickly. And then there are those that I care about, but require me to rely on a tricky cocktail of fertilizer, sunlight, and weather to keep flowering. The orchids (and these friendships) sometimes require more effort than I’m capable to provide.

It’s not just people that I’m reminded of when I think about my struggling garden. When I’ve been looking around Cambodia lately, I’m seeing the same things. My priorities are shifting and rearranging as I’ve been here for a time. I want more depth in my friendships here, less of a social group and more of a community. My passions for certain solutions are fading as I’m exposed to weeds like corruption and fatalism.

Watching the death of my plants, of my relationships, of my worldviews, I’ve realized why it is that only a few of these things are still living. I’m a person who likes to see results—I appreciate when I can look around and feel like I’ve accomplished something (you should see how satisfied I am when the dishes are done). It’s the plants, the people, the ideals that survive which claim my attention and my care. I’m not interested in bringing something dead back to life. I want to bask in the glory of my success.

Here is where the big and scary change comes in. I want to leave things for dead in my life; my plants, my passion, my friendships. Yet the God I serve is one who restores life from what is dead. Right now, as I’ve looked around at my dead plants, I’ve also found that upon second inspection, some are still alive. I’m finding that even when I’ve killed something off, through my lack of communication—even inattention—relationships (and plants) are flourishing, blooming when I least expect it. Things I prayed about ages ago and buried are suddenly answered. More interesting is the transformation when this happens. I used to think it was creative solutions and large-scale efforts that would make things better. Instead, springing up is a desire to see the local church equipped and mobilized to create true change, lasting change.

In many respects, death and restoration are the story of this place. Cambodia is a country entrenched in death and mourning; for 30 years people have lamented the Pol Pot regime and genocide, and struggled through a civil war, poverty, and disease. Yet out of that time, out of the destruction, there is new life coming; the Church is growing, and little by little, hope is blossoming here.

It’s no coincidence to me that in this season of restoration—of relationships, of purpose—God is reminding me of the passage I spent so much time praying about before I moved to Cambodia. “…provide for those who grieve in Zion— to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor” (Isaiah 61:3). We are no longer those who grieve, surrounded by death. I don’t have to live amongst ashes, in mourning; God wants to provide beauty and joy instead. He wants us to be plants, too, sturdy, righteous oak trees, a statement for all about how Christ has brought us—and all of the things we left for dead—back to life.