This morning was a rare oasis against the backdrop of busyness that has found me working dawn to dusk the past few weeks (and stressed to the max). I found myself ready for the day with extra time to spare and conveniently at a point in the season where the rains are beginning again. I undertook a quick (but long postponed) project of transplanting two vanilla vines from my old house to my new one.
In the cool of the morning I walked down to cut a few segments and gather some wood shavings from up at the workshop. After returning to my house, I dug a small hole, removed the bottom two leaves from the vine, and blended the appropriate mixture of soil and sand for backfill (all of this from my handy gardening assistant: Google).
Like every good gardener, I went back to my vanilla vines after lunch to "check on them." In spite of all of my rational knowledge and reasoning, there was still an internal desire to check to see if there had been any changes, growth, or what I want most of all, vanilla beans. Turns out that they were pretty much the same as I left them.
The transplanted plant is probably the best metaphor that I have heard regarding missionary life. Uprooting, the jolting of a quick transport to your new location, being plopped in the ground without any roots, and then having nothing to show on the surface for a long time while your roots grow deep, and then one day new growth comes, and finally after a while, there is fruit.
after. a. while...there is fruit.
And so I would say that being a missionary is teaching me patience. And endurance. Anna and I are still growing roots - the signs of growth just beginning to emerge. But one day. We know there will be fruit. And it will taste delicious.