Pruned for Spring

I love summer evenings. Those nights when the heat finally pulls back its blanket and there is just the slightest touch of fall in the air. The kind when the light seems reluctant to leave. This particular summer evening, the sun hung low behind my weeping cherry tree, gleaming through her leaves in brilliant ribbons of gold. Every time the branches moved with the gentle wisp of wind, the light moved with them—appearing and disappearing, flickering through the green until suddenly, briefly, it would boldly break through with such warm, blinding brightness that I had to turn my face away. And yet, I wanted to keep looking. There was something sacred about the light coming through those leaves. Something that enveloped my heart and lifted me, just a little, closer to my Creator. 

I stood alone beneath the tree with pruning shears in my hand, studying her branches. Some had grown too long. Some were tangled together. Others were weak or reaching in directions that would eventually damage her health. I knew they needed to be cut away. Still, I hesitated. 

There is something strange about cutting something you love in order to help it grow. With each branch I removed, she became a little more bare. Pieces of her gathered at my feet, and for a moment it seemed as though I was taking something from her. But I knew better. I wasn’t cutting her because she had failed to grow. I was pruning her because she had grown. And because I wanted her to keep growing. 

I was giving her room to breathe. Room for the sun to reach places it hadn’t reached before. I was taking away what no longer served her so her strength could be directed toward what remained. I was preparing her for winter. 

Soon, the warmth of this summer evening will disappear. The leaves will turn and fall. Snow will settle heavily upon her branches, and the cold, bitter winds will push against them. There will be months when she will stand outside my window, longingly looking toward me, almost lifeless—no blossoms, no leaves, no outward evidence of the beauty hidden within her.

But I know something the winter could not tell me. After he does all he can to weaken her, to break her, she will still be alive. Her roots will still be firmly planted, holding tightly beneath the frozen earth. Life will still be moving quietly inside her. And the branches I had trimmed will be stronger because of what had been taken away. 

As I stood there watching the sunlight stream through the spaces I had created, I realized how much I understood her. I, too, have been pruned. There have been seasons when parts of my life were cut away that I desperately wanted to keep. Pieces of myself I thought I needed. There were moments when I looked at what remained and wondered how losing so much could possibly make me stronger. Perhaps pruning rarely feels like preparation while we are living through it. Sometimes it simply feels like loss. 

But standing beneath that tree, I wondered if my God sees in me what I could see in her. Maybe He knows where I need room to breathe. Maybe He knows exactly where the light needs to enter. Maybe He sees the weight I would not be able to carry into the winter ahead. Maybe what felt like being stripped back was, in ways I couldn’t yet understand, strengthening me for the cold and bitter winds that would come. 

And they did come. 

I have known winter. I have known what it is to stand in a season where the beautiful parts of myself seemed to disappear. Neurosurgery took so many things from me while still providing me with my greatest blessing of healing. I lost control of so much of my life. I lost the ability to do things for myself. I was stripped of cognitive function. Of being able to walk on my own. What was done to remove my constant pain left, in its healing wreckage, a constant silence. I looked at the bare branches of my own life and tried to believe there was still something alive beneath them. 

There was. There is. 

I am beginning to understand that being pruned does not mean being diminished. Sometimes it means being prepared. 

My sweet cherry tree does not fear that winter will last forever. She simply stands where she has been planted. Her roots remain deep in the earth while the wind moves through her branches. She rests. She waits. And somehow, without anyone seeing it happen, she prepares for spring. 

I want to live with that kind of trust. Trust that the bare seasons are not the end of the story. Trust that what has been cut away does not determine what can still grow. Trust that winter has a purpose, even when it is long. Trust that somewhere beneath what I can see, God is still creating life. 

Spring always reveals what winter keeps hidden. 

One day, my weeping cherry tree will awaken again. Tiny buds will appear along the branches that look empty now. Then, almost before I realize it, she will be covered in vibrant

blossoms—delicate, bright, beautiful evidence that she survived. Not the same tree she was before. Stronger. Renewed. Alive. 

And perhaps that is what healing and becoming look like for me, too. I have been trimmed and pruned. I have been bent by winds I did not choose. I have stood through winters I never imagined would be mine. But my roots have grown deeper. The light reaches places in me it could not reach before. And I am beginning to see small blossoms where I once saw only what had been taken away. 

That summer evening, the sun broke through the leaves once more, warm and brilliant, and for a moment, standing there alone, everything seemed to glow around me. So did something inside me. 

I looked at my tree and thought about the spring that would come. Her spring. And mine. 

There will be blossoms again. There will be new life. There will be new beauty. And perhaps when the light finds its way through my branches, I will understand that I was never being cut down. 

I was simply being prepared to bloom. 

Thank you, God, for Spring!