A little Currant Bush.

Last night I had a wonderful conversation with my friend. We both came to a small decision, and we both decided that we would pray to confirm our feelings. Prayer. What a wonderful gift. I am so grateful that I believe in a Divine Source of knowledge.

Some would call it silly to pray about a small decision, but I am glad that she asked me to do so. I did, and I felt very confident that the decision we had made is a good one. I woke up this morning (because my phone alarm went off at 4:15AM. Since then I have been wondering what answer she had received. I am more than anything anxious to hear what she felt.

Another part of me is nervous to know, especially if it is in the negative. I told her that I will respect her feelings and what she receives of the Lord. I know I will, I think she's a great person, and I have been so much better because I have known her. I'm not saying that if she feels that we should not continue on the path that we have thought about starting; I will never be around her. Not at all.

This reminds me of a story I heard given. Please read on.

I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet (two meters) high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and clipped it back until there was nothing left but stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded (and I haven’t entirely gotten over it), and I looked at it and smiled and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush say this:

“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”

That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’”

Years passed, and I found myself in England. I was in command of a cavalry unit in the Canadian army. I held the rank of field officer in the British Canadian army. I was proud of my position. And there was an opportunity for me to become a general. I had taken all the examinations. I had the seniority. The one man between me and the office of general in the British army became a casualty, and I received a telegram from London. It said: “Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00,” signed by General Turner.

I went up to London. I walked smartly into the office of the general, and I saluted him smartly, and he gave me the same kind of a salute a senior officer usually gives—a sort of “Get out of the way, worm!” He said, “Sit down, Brown.” Then he said, “I’m sorry I cannot make the appointment. You are entitled to it. You have passed all the examinations. You have the seniority. You’ve been a good officer, but I can’t make the appointment. You are to return to Canada and become a training officer and a transport officer.” That for which I had been hoping and praying for 10 years suddenly slipped out of my fingers.

Then he went into the other room to answer the telephone, and on his desk, I saw my personal history sheet. Right across the bottom of it was written, “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.” We were not very well liked in those days. When I saw that, I knew why I had not been appointed. He came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.” I saluted him again, but not quite as smartly, and went out.

I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles (190 kilometers) away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, “You are a failure.” When I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap on the cot. I clenched my fists, and I shook them at heaven. I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?” I was as bitter as gall.

And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.” The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness.  (http://lds.org/liahona/2002/03/the-currant-bush?lang=eng)

As I think of this story, I quietly think this in my mind.

Mr. Gardner,

I am ready for anything that might happen today. You know how I feel about what I would like to happen, but I know that you know the grand design. Please help me (if I am cut or shaped in an uncomfortable way today). To understand the pattern which you have set forth. I trust you completely. Thank you for loving me enough to be aware of what I need to grow correctly. And if you have the desire to let me grow in the way I have chosen (at least for a little while) thank you. Thank you for your love.

Sincerely,

A little currant bush.