Advent 2: the labor of planting a fragile branch in this earth

We have a mulberry bush just by the door, thanks to Lesley Stevens who lived in this house for a few years. I am grateful to her quite often, as we search the branches for a dark, ripe berry to snack or to freeze for adding to smoothies . . . the tropics are amazing for fruit and we have bananas, papaya, mangos, even avocados in our yard, but berries are harder to grow in the heat, so those handfuls bring us a lot of joy. On Thursdays when the kids come for pizza, they often scour the branches for berries to add to their own "desert pizza" creations. More joy. So, this being Uganda, a month or two ago when Scott had trimmed the bush back, I took a half dozen branches and stuck them in the ground down by the clothesline. Literally a branch shoved into the grassy dirt, but equatorial rain and sun and abundance means several of them seem to be alive, sending down roots and growing their own leaves. Recently we picked our first two berries from the transplanted branches. 

The mulberry bush by the door

A day with a good harvest!

one of the branches, bearing fruit

That's the image of the branch in Isaiah. The promised one does not appear with a flash of alien super-hero power, he comes as an embryo, made of the same substance as us. An idea, a concept, an unseen truth that became flesh. A small fragile piece of humanity connected to long lineages, literally stuck into our earth to grow. Mystery of God, for the first time, visible and palpable to humans. Fullness of grace, transplanted. 

A flashing miracle of sudden presence might have sounded like a more sure bet than the painful labor of giving birth two millennia ago, or even now. Isaiah 11 speaks poetically and confidently of the branch, but for the word to become flesh and dwell amongst us the picture in Isaiah 26 is more realistic: trouble visits, a woman in labor cries out, the time draws near and the sharp pains are upon her. Giving birth, literally, but also a metaphor for the deeply personal costly effort that Jesus' presence required of Mary and requires of us. In chapter 26, the gruelling process is entered with hope but no guarantee that the outcome will be more than wind. That's faith's exhausting toll.

Because this has been a week of labor, searing sorrows that we hope bring forth more than we can see. We're struggling to balance the budgets, to conclude the calendar year, to plan for 2023, writing and signing contracts with a dozen mission and several dozen Christ School employees. Negotiating, listening, trying. Having hard conversations with a few that wrench the heart. Personal and virtual meetings, hard stories to pray for and carry across the six countries in our Area of supervision. Determined to trust God's story even when we can't see around the corner of how God will provide, determined to push everything an inch closer to goodness even though a thousand forces seem to push in the opposite direction, determined to not give up but to let some things go with open hands. Juggling paperwork and rules and taxes and details. And weeping over our little dog Nyota that followed us home one traumatic morning six-plus years ago, and now seems to be dwindling towards death in spite of treating for everything locally treatable. It's been a lot.

But the message of Advent is that in the pain of these labours, the Word enters our reality. In the struggle of faith, God is enfleshed. 

A 23 year labor of love that God let us see beautiful results from this week: the staff of Christ School  on the last day of school (still have some exams, but last full day for staff) after a prayer walk to THANK God for the miracles and mercies of 2022,