I am a rose trampler!

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, like Spring in the South.

Especially this year, when Spring literally kicked out Winter in one day...bursting and busting out all over and putting on a color show the likes of which has never been seen before.

I don't remember a year when the vibrant lime green of Persimmon leaves mutually co-existed along with the soft white of Dogwood blossoms and the scarlet in-your-face Azaleas.

It's like all creation got together and said, "Let's show 'em what we got!"

Magnificent!

Any gardener here worth their salt has had their sap running for weeks now...being forced to jump-start necessary Spring activities to full-speed-ahead in an effort to keep one step ahead of Mother Nature's exuberance.

My back and muscles say I am a fool...but a happy fool...

One who has been pruning and feeding and nurturing and loving-on, as they say in the South, my gardens...unearthing and mulching tender shoots of life, feeding and pruning, doing all a good mother does for her children, because she cares for them...which leads me to...

Last week, when I was sitting in church, thinking and praying and attempting to reign in my meandering thoughts...when I heard myself singing this chorus...

"Crucified, laid behind the stone

You lived to die

Rejected and alone

Like a rose

Trampled on the ground

You took the fall

And thought of me

Above all."

And whether or not the worship team meant for that chorus to stick in my mind all week I do not know...(personally I think they did)...

But for whatever reason, for almost one week now, that chorus has hovered around my consciousness like a pesky mosquito, bugging me...

It wasn't until yesterday, when I was out walking through a flower-filled meadow with my dog, that I noticed something...

Instinctively, I was doing my best to avoid trampling the flowers under my feet!

Which brought to mind the lyrics of the song...like a rose, trampled on the ground...

Wait a minute! That is so not right! What kind of person tramples on a rose???

Roses were meant to be placed tenderly in a lovely vase...given a place of honor in a special location so they could be admired...

Not trampled. That is SO WRONG!

Which is exactly the conclusion Michael W. Smith wanted me to come to...wise songwriter that he is!

Today is Good Friday...Good for us, not so good for our Lord.

He came into the world, which He created, but it knew Him not.

And for thirty-three years He walked among His Creation... 

Until, on the day we call Good Friday, He allowed himself to be mocked...scorned...misunderstood...crucified...

All because of Love.

What kind of people trample roses? The ones who don't understand their value...who are too busy with their own agendas and narrow lives that they run haphazardly through life not noticing what is important.

The people of His time were Rose tramplers. So were His disciples.

And me. I am a Rose trampler. 

I think I knew that as I fought to hide the tears that threatened to overflow and give me away during last week's church service as we sang that song...wiping, and sniffling, and looking down, hoping no one would notice my swollen eyes and puffy face...instinctively I must have known...

That because of me, because of my sin, there had to be a Good Friday...a day when God gave all Rose tramplers a way to come Home again.

I am not a singer...the cats run when I belt out a song...and I sure can't play any instrument to save my life...but by His grace I can write...it's part of who He created me to be. 

So today, I write this blog for you, my Lord...to say, I love you, Jesus...with all my Rose-trampling heart. 

And I thank You. Forever and ever will never be enough time to sing Your praises.

Maybe I should wait until Easter to tell You this. 

But I've read the story...I know the ending...

And it is glorious. 

So my thanks begin today...for what is coming...

Amazing Love.

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photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/78251058@N00/25995057286">Good Friday</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">(license)</a>