I accidentally grew a potato.
Back in the compost pile I was, heaving my bucket.
Back turning the dirt treasure only to see a slender green tendril come out of hiding.
I pulled the green strand slowly, out of the mulch, out of the dirt depths of decay, and at the end of it was a tiny, fully formed potato.
A sound of delight actually escaped from my mouth and I proclaimed to no one, “A potato!”
I had not been expectant. I had not purposed to plant. Especially in a compost pile.
I had not been thinking I would find anything at the end of the green.
I was not expecting it to carry weight.
It is an ugly little potato.
It is full of blemish, ruddy, even scarred in places.
And it is the real deal.
I have been waiting. I was purposed in my planting when I laid the seed.
There are no flowers. Only leaves grow over the wrought iron and wood.
There were supposed to be red trumpets heralding.
Morning glories speaking of His glory.
This was not supposed to be.
Jesus encountered a fig tree on his way to Jerusalem with leaves and no fruit either. He cursed it down to the root.
Not because He doesn’t like figs. He cursed it because He doesn’t like hypocrisy. He doesn’t like trickery.
I learned once when a fig tree leafs out it is a sign that fruit is present…or very soon to be. When people see leaves it is a sign. It is a marker. Fruit! Life!
Not this fig tree. This tree was pretending. Pharisee pretending. Pretending to send of message of goodness, of righteous… pretending to send a message there was fruit on its branches. But Jesus saw through the leaves. Jesus saw through the pretending and proclaimed a withering. This was not supposed to be.
The vines on the fence are lush and full and everytime I touch the soft leaves I am in awe of their beauty, their velvet skins soft in my palm. But I am sad and angry because I planted and sheltered and watered and cared. There are no trumpets and it was the only reason I planted the seed in the first place. I wanted blood-red trumpets to walk under in the morning glory.
So the potato sits on the windowsill, small, blemished and real.
That’s all Jesus wants. He wants real.
I want to be real. Even if I remain hidden.
Even if I’m pulled out of the depths and I am not so pretty.