I was on my way to meet someone, wearing a sweater I cherished. The air was fragrant with the scent of spring, and I strolled along, lost in the charm of the day—when I suddenly felt a tug on my arm. I turned and saw that a thorny vine, stretching from a dense bramble, had caught the yarn of my sweater and refused to let go.
“No, please, no!”
I hurriedly freed myself from its grasp, but the damage was done. My sweater was snagged, its threads pulled and torn, the delicate fabric left in tatters. I muttered a complaint to the city office, never once admitting that the fault had been mine, for failing to notice the bramble while admiring the view.
A few days later, I passed the same spot. A groundskeeper stood there with long pruning shears, cutting away at the thornbush with quiet precision. The tangled, unruly branches were being trimmed and tamed, like wild hair under a barber’s shears. The vine that had once reached out to ensnare me now stood neat and orderly.
As I watched, I found myself reflecting on my own condition. I have yet to attain the fullness of divine character. I try, in my own faltering way; but cutting away the thorns of my personality, those sharp edges of temper and pride, is never easy. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, if someone could just trim away my flaws for me? Then my eyes settled on the back of the groundskeeper—hunched over his work, his clothes soaked in sweat, his hands laboring patiently in the dust.
I realized: I do have someone like that. My Heavenly Father and Mother.
How much must They have suffered, being pierced by the thorns of my sin, all to gently refine me so that my soul would not be wounded?
Several days later, I returned to that path. The flowers were in full bloom, turning the trail into a garden of joy. There, among them, stood that once-tangled vine—trimmed and transformed. Its once-bristling branches now wore fresh green leaves, and delicate pink blossoms bloomed like medals.