My pride, which began at birth as a seed, grew in fits and spurts through high school. It had periods of accelerated growth: In college and as a young professional, and it was fed and fertilized by ministry in my 30s. In 2013 my pride, as tall as a pine tree, was chopped down to a stump. Soon after, a sprig shot up through a gap, and by 2019 it had grown yet stronger than before, as the mightiest of oaks. Once again it was chopped down and this time restrained with a band of iron and bronze. Still, a sprig shot up and had grown into size of dogwood tree by 2022. Now I gave God more of my attention as he chopped it off and installed additional bands of restraint. Each time, he has lovingly shown me my error, and reminded me to look to his power and might, not my own. Nonetheless, last week--how patient and longsuffering is God--a new sprig made its way through the metal lattice. God walked me to it, holding my hand. Once again, as he pointed it out, he helped me to see the pain and danger it produced when allowed to grow. He painfully snipped it off, and this time I helped God, as a small child helps his dad, place a steel vault on top of the trunk.
How powerful and insidious is pride, which still lives in the ever-spreading roots. Come Lord Jesus, and bring about the day I will sit in the shade of the Tree of Life, by streams of living water, laughing and splashing in joyful and pure humility.
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