The Liturgy of the Dead Rubber Tree

In between writing my Sunday message and my Ash Wednesday service, I finally had time to get outside and assess the damage to my garden from the "historical" Florida frost. The evaluation was worse than I had imagined. Our rubber tree plant hung solemn in the warm morning sun—less of a proud tropical statement and more of a cautionary tale.

The flowers that had once stood straight and proud were now shriveled and fallen, looking remarkably like they had already undergone their own private Ash Wednesday service without waiting for the rest of us.

This front garden had been in the making for almost two years. Two years of planting, moving things, weeding, and coaxing life out of the dirt. And now, in a single night, it had been seemingly reduced to dust.

The irony of the moment wasn’t lost on me. I had literally just been typing the words "to dust you shall return" as we call ourselves to repentance and surrender. I was sitting in the Scriptures, thinking about how we build our lives up—growing, moving, and rearranging our spiritual furniture—only to sometimes, have it all lost in a single "freeze."

Sometimes it doesn’t take much to push on our faith. We might all remember times we thought our faith was stronger than it actually was; until something hit us hard out of the blue. A time when we had to build back the faith that we thought we so strongly had a grip on.

What’s worse than having moments of lost faith is realizing your faith was so easily damaged because you hadn’t done much to strengthen and protect it along the way.

There lies the irony in the plants.

You see, I didn’t cover the plants properly. I knew the freeze was coming. I knew the measures I should have taken to protect them and keep them safe. But instead of the heavy-duty burlap or the deep mulching they required; I haphazardly threw some old sheets over them.

It was the gardening equivalent of a "quick prayer on the way to work" when the soul actually needed a season of fasting. Predictably, those sheets ended up blowing off with the evening winds, leaving my garden vulnerable to the elements.

And honestly? That is so often our faith walk.

How many times do we treat our relationship with God like those haphazard sheets? We see a "frost" coming—stress at work, a strain in a relationship, or just the general coldness of the world—and instead of anchoring ourselves in the deep, protective covering of prayer and the Word of God, we throw a thin layer of "good intentions" over our life and hope the wind doesn't blow. Then, when the morning sun hits, we’re standing there wondering why our spiritual "leaves" are drooping.

But this is the beauty of the Lenten season. Lent is the Great Reset. It’s the moment where we stop pretending our thin sheets were enough and we stand honestly in the wreckage. We bring the "mess" of our haphazard care to the foot of the Cross and admit that we can’t sustain the growth on our own.

As I look at the ruined garden, I realize that while we as people might be haphazard, God is intentional. He doesn’t mind starting over with us. In fact, He specializes in taking the dust of our failures and using it as the very soil for a new season.

The rubber tree might look dead today, but the Master Gardener is already working beneath the surface. I’ll clear the debris, prep the soil, and  plant again—knowing that in His hands, even a frost-bitten garden can find its way back to life.

That’s the promise of Lent as well. To clear the debris, prep our hearts and plant again and let Gods hands bring us back to life!

-Pastor Patti