Inextricable

I’m helping my parents with yard work. The ground under my shoes is soft from May rain. The weeds have taken advantage of that. They’ve claimed sidewalk cracks and flower beds.  I crouch down and pull a handful of leafy green from where it does not belong.

“Would you mind trimming the vine on the arbor?” my mom asks. She’s raking up the remnants of fall's leaves. “You always do a great job with it.”

I throw the weeds into the wheelbarrow, then find a pair of hedge clippers. I look at the arbor. It’s covered by a tangled mess. I can see coarse, brown vines on the inside of the arbor. They are thick from years of growth. But on the outside of the arbor, hundreds of thin green shoots have grown in every direction.

“Whoa,” I say. “This trumpet vine is out of control.”

“It’s unruly,” my mom says. “Remember when I first planted it? You trained the vines around the arbor as they grew.”

I nod. Then I begin to prune. Wild vines fall to my clippers.

As I choose which shoots should stay and which should go, the iron arbor begins to show through. The metal was once black, but now it’s pocked with rust. I reach a place where part of the arbor has completely rusted away.

“Uh, Mom,” I say. “This arbor is standing on three legs.”

She peers into the opening I’ve uncovered. “You’re right. But look why it’s still standing.”  She points at the old, brown vine that is twined around the post. It is wound so tightly that it holds the broken arbor in place.

After years of wrapping around the arbor, the vine has become a permanent part of it. The vine is inextricable.

That is how I want Christ in my life. I want Him to be incorporated into everything I do. I want Him to be apparent in the words I speak, the actions I take, and the thoughts I think. I want Him to be inextricable from me. Because I know that when things fall apart, only His strength can bind me together and keep me whole.

I set the clippers down. “I'm going to let this vine grow,” I say. “The arbor’s stronger this way.

Then, instead of trimming vines, I begin to weave them in and out of the arbor.

The Weight of Words

“I’ve been to every thrift store in town,” I say. I lean on the kitchen counter. “I can’t find an old Scrabble game anywhere.”

“Why are you looking for Scrabble?” my mom asks.

“I want to put magnets on the back of the tiles and use them to write quotes on my fridge.”

“Hold on,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

She leaves the room. When she comes back, she’s carrying a dark red Scrabble box. She sets it on the counter. The top of the box is layered with dust, save for the places her hands held it.

“This is yours,” she says.

“That’s the game Grandma Mary gave me,” I say. I shake my head. “I can’t use those tiles. I don’t want to ruin them.”

“Grandma Mary loved words,” my mom says. “I know she’d be happy for you to use the game this way.”

I open the box.

The wooden squares inside bring back memories of ninety-year-old Great Grandma Mary teaching me how to play Scrabble. Her hands shook from the Parkinson’s as she placed tiles on the board. Grandma Mary was brittle but brilliant. Her vocabulary was unmatched. She could play words far beyond the comprehension of my ten-year-old mind.

But the best part about Grandma Mary wasn’t the words she played on the board. It was the words she spoke to me.

Grandma Mary was an encourager. She spoke words that built me up. Words that made me feel special. Words that let me know I was loved.

Grandma Mary has been gone for over a decade now. But what she taught me about encouraging others will always be with me.

I close the lid to the box.

“You know, I think I will use this set for my magnets,” I say.

Because every morning, when I open my fridge, the Scrabble tiles will be a reminder for me.

A reminder of a kind lady who loved others.

And a reminder to use my own words to build people up.

* * *

1 Thessalonians 5:11 (NIV) "Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing."