Only Say the Word

Shriveled Pumpkins that Led Me to Mercy

About a month ago, a beautiful child walked into my garden with a snotty nose. “Yes, Jesus” was my instant internal prayer. When a respiratory illness runs through my home, there is a good chance it will settle in my lungs and make me very sick, thanks to a strange inflammatory disease I have. And that’s just what happened this time, leaving me in a familiar suffering that feels almost like a comfort, as it places me on the Cross with Jesus, struggling to breathe beside Him.

I was prepared to accept this prolonged illness with serenity when a hernia decided to demand attention. To make surgery possible, a round of prednisone was required to get my lungs under control. “Yes, Jesus” again, but this time with slight reluctance. Steroids at high doses make me extremely irritable and unable to sleep. Physical suffering is one thing; mental suffering and sleep deprivation is its own challenge.

The surgery was successful. But over the course of ten days, my routine fell apart, my heart and mind came unglued, and I lost my grasp of that intention to suffer well. While I longed to be docile and loving and offer all of it up with a grateful heart, I was bitter and frustrated—the hallmark of Whitney on prednisone.

I wandered through the thriving and blooming garden, observing its beauty while I sulked. Typically, I spend my life noticing and praying with the parallels between my heart and my garden. For the first time, I found none. The garden is beautiful and full of promise—my heart felt like a mess.

Then, I inspected the pumpkins. The pumpkin plants are huge, already spilling out of their beds. There were many flowers, and I assumed that little pumpkins were beginning to grow beneath the massive canopy of foliage. I lifted the leaves to discover that several potential pumpkins had missed their window of pollination, shriveled, and fallen off the stems. “Fruitless!” I thought. “The garden is like my soul, after all. All that potential, no fruit.”

The day after the steroids ended, I was returning to myself. I sat in a church for a long time after Mass—finally able to really pray for the first time in days—and all I could think about were those shriveled pumpkins and my wasted suffering. I mentally perused the list of the fruits of the Spirit. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Rather than listening for His voice, I compared myself to this list and the ways I had failed.

Then I was sent a sermon by a French priest from the Community of St. Martin. He reminded me of a timely and powerful truth:

“…we cannot save ourselves by our own strength, by doing many things; rather our sanctification comes through letting ourselves be loved by God. The poorer we are, the weaker we are, the more we find ourselves without any merits or virtues, the more we are disposed to the operations of the love of God.”

What a relief. Here I was, pondering my lack of merit and virtue, and that’s exactly the emptiness the Lord seeks to fill. I shifted my disposition to complete surrender. Here I am, Lord. I wanted to love You so badly, and I am heartbroken at my failures. But my love is not the point. Your love is the point. I have nothing. You are everything. I am empty. You can fill me.

My heart and mind quieted and I was still before God. My weakness invited His strength. My failures invited His mercy. I simply had to stop dwelling on myself and look at Him.

The centurion in the Gospel who approached Jesus for a miracle didn’t stop at “Lord, I am not worthy…” Had he concluded there and walked away, his faith wouldn’t have saved his servant. “But only say the word and my servant shall be healed.”

Only say the word, Lord, and my soul shall be healed.

I have made a subtle mistake many times when contemplating the fruits of the Spirit. I hold them up exclusively as a litmus test of my own virtue, instead of seeing them also as the language of the God Who loves me, Who calls me into union with Him, Who offers me suffering not to watch me fail, but to lend His likeness to me as He gradually and gently chips away the parts of me that are not conformed to Him. It’s the enemy of my soul who invites me to ruminate on my failings. Jesus calls me to focus on Him, and to be enveloped by His Spirit of mercy and forgiveness when I fall short.

The vast expanse of my garden in all its beauty and bounty is not defined by a few shriveled pumpkins. It is defined by the love of the Gardener Whose life-giving Spirit animates every inch of it. Whatever fruits it will bear are the work of His Spirit, not my own frustrated striving.

May God grant me the faith of the centurion, looking not at my unworthiness, but at God’s infinite love, and His desire to transform what I lay at His feet.