Pruning the Christmas Tree

These days, I have an artificial tree that folds up tight and deploys neatly into a fine shape—no pruning required. But in years past, I shopped for a cut tree. Christmas is my favorite holiday, and I have beautiful ornaments, so I was particular about the shape. Yet no matter how carefully I chose on the tree lot, there was always pruning involved—snipping here and there to optimize the silhouette and leave plenty of room at the base for gifts.

My former home in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia was naturally landscaped by a horticultural college student who planted a dramatic range of fruit and flowering trees and shrubs. Most required regular pruning to look—and be—their best. Some I pruned to within inches of their life, following the instruction of the county extension agent and the giant gardening books I owned before Google. The timing mattered. The cut mattered. The results depended on both.

Christmas tree or shrub: if a branch was really thick or stubborn, the pruning required greater force—sometimes a different tool entirely…like a saw. Gulp.

I have personally been pruned within an inch of my life, and I didn’t like any of it. People. Places. Things. Behaviors. Thought patterns. Convictions. All subject to the careful, sometimes painful, pruning of the Master Gardener.

Sometimes the fruit was immediate: a greater sense of peace and integrity after ending a toxic job or relationship; better cash flow after giving up Starbucks; increased serenity after surrendering a destructive habit that felt like bondage.

Other times, the purpose was only clear in retrospect. God pruned something I didn’t want to let go of, and the harvest came later.

And sometimes the benefit wasn’t obvious at all—at least not to me. I was angry or hurt. Why didn’t that job work out? Why did that relationship end? Why did that opportunity collapse? At times, the pruning felt brutal, even punitive.

I always have the option of complaining or shaking my fist at God. I’ve done plenty of both. But I’m choosing—again—to believe Father knows best.

I think about the Third Step prayer, when we ask to be relieved of the bondage of self. I think about the Seventh Step prayer, when we ask God to remove every single defect that stands in the way of our usefulness to Him and others. I didn’t think to ask what that removal would actually look like. If I had known, maybe I wouldn’t have prayed them quite so zealously.

Jesus says we’ll be pruned. Period.

He will prune what is dead and useless—and He will prune anything that makes us less fruitful. And then He will keep pruning, so we become more fruitful.

After each growth season, there will be pruning. If we remember it’s part of love—not rejection—it may be easier to endure.

And here’s the humbling part: Jesus says this in John 15:1–2 about Himself. He is the true vine. The Father is the gardener. If Jesus submitted to the Father’s will and the cutting work that love requires, how much more will we face pruning in this life?

The question isn’t whether pruning is coming.

It’s whether I will trust the hands holding the shears.

PRACTICE

Are you resisting God’s pruning—something or someone that may be hindering your fruitfulness?

PRAYER

Master Gardener of the universe, I want to be the fruitful tree You designed me to be, and I recognize that will require ongoing pruning. Help me not to resist Your hand, but to trust Your heart. Give me grace to picture the bountiful blooms Your pruning produces, so I can endure the cutting with hope. In Christ’s name, amen. Thank You. I love You. 💖

DIG DEEPER

John 15:1–8

Hebrews 12:5–11

James 1:2–4

Psalm 66:10–12

Isaiah 43:1–2

Romans 5:3–5

2 Corinthians 4:16–18