The Lemon Tree

I've obviously been sitting with the ideas of Milk and Honey and the Promised Land for quite a while now. Provision. Restoration. Promise. The belief that God is leading us somewhere good, even when the road getting there feels longer than expected.

And yet, there I was sitting in a doctor's office again.

The word that kept running through my mind was bittersweet.

Not bitter.

Not sweet.

Both.

The more I sat with it, the more something clicked into place. The piece I'd been struggling with suddenly felt clear. The title arrived almost fully formed. The symbolism made sense. Even the words seemed ready to be spoken.

When Bitterness Turns Sweet.

Not because the difficult parts disappear. Not because the sharp edges of life magically become pleasant. But because God has a way of taking things that feel disappointing, painful, unfair, or unfinished and weaving them into something beautiful over time.

The Lemon Tree

I asked for honey on my bread,
for easy sweetness, warm and bright,
for something gathered, golden-hued,
a little comfort for the night.

Instead I found a lemon tree
with twisted limbs awaiting me.
Its blossoms scented all the air,
while something sharper ripened there.

I laughed because it seemed unfair.
Scent deceptively sweet,
yet every golden globe held
sour notes that weren't a treat.

The sweetest things I've come to know
began where I was loath to go.
They asked for patience, work, and grace,
and left their mark upon the place.

I thought about the jars at home,
the wooden spoon, the sugared bowl,
how ordinary things can change
when mixed together to make a whole.

Perhaps that's why the tree was there,
not as a burden I must bear,
but as a quiet reminder
that good things seldom come prepared.

And when at last the work is through,
when water, fruit, and sweetness brew,
the cup is cool within my hand,
a remedy for sour demands.

Because the sharpness had a part,
because it traveled through the heart,
what once seemed more than I bear
became a gift I can share.