Entangled in this world. My thorns are sharp. I’m brittle and a little broken. I’ve been cooped up in the cold, dark winter. I look dead. I feel it, too. It’s been a long and lonely time since the sun last shone.
I’m just a wild rose, wrapping around, trying to find my place. Afraid of being ripped out, I dig my vines deeper, holding tightly to anything that will support me and let me grow. I don’t feel beautiful. I don’t look it, either. I am brittle, hard, and strong. I am a survivor.
When the cold season came, I hid inside myself. I became an introvert. I long to be wild and free again, but I’m stuck in a season of waiting. Yet deep inside, I’m still me. I feel the Spirit quietly flowing through my veins. If you cut me, you’ll see—I’m still green and fresh beneath my hardened exterior. If you cut me, I’ll bleed.
I feel the touch of my Maker strengthening me. I need to be pruned. My thorns are sharp. I need to strengthen my heart. I can’t bloom if I don’t have the energy stored up in my veins. So I pray. And here I’ll stay until the sun renews my strength.
The snow is slowly melting. Life is returning to the world around me. The sun is beginning to spread its warmth and cheer. I feel myself unfurling again. Slowly, I’m reaching out, growing, warming, awakening. The season is changing, and I can feel it deep in my soul. It’s changing me. I’m softening, stretching, beginning again.
It’s a promise I hold tightly.
As long as the earth remains, the seasons will always change. There will always be spring after the long, cold, lonely winter. There will always be light after the dark. Warmth after cold. Life after death. The seasons seem to shift just when I need them to. When I can’t hold on any longer, You renew my strength with life again.
I spread out my arms wide. I stretch and breathe. I’m alive. The sun warms every part of me. Hope and joy fill my veins. I know where my help comes from. I lift my face to the heavens. I reach and grow, filling the spaces around me.
My thorns are still sharp. I am still growing, changing, and broken. But I carefully bud, my leaves unfurling to soak up the sun.
Life.
It’s a miracle. It’s hope. It’s warmth and goodness. It’s a gift from God.
I am no longer ugly. No longer sad. No longer lonely.
I am wide and free. Wild. My fragrance reaches the heavens. I stretch and bloom. My soft petals open, revealing my true color. I am no longer on the brink of death, barely hanging on. I am in full bloom, and my beauty can be seen for miles.
I’m a wild rose. I need care. I need love. I have sharp thorns. I don’t always look beautiful. But if you give me the Son, I will thrive. I will bloom. I will grow. I will bring a smile to your face.
Not everyone will like me. I’m not a carefully planted rose in a garden. No—I grow wild, unexpected. But I bring beauty to the wilderness, to the forgotten places, to the mundane.
Yet, through every season, I hold on to hope—hope that the sun will shine again.
God knows I need to be pruned. I constantly need attention and care. But I am beautiful. Wild. Free.
And I am loved.