(Letter from the Parsonage – Four O’Clock flower Story – Part Seven)

© WanHee Yoon, 2001

In front of the parsonage stands a dogwood tree.
When I first moved into the parsonage, I paid little attention to it. But one spring, when tender buds burst into pink blossoms from the dry branches, I was utterly captivated by its quiet elegance. And in autumn, when it was the first to clothe itself in crimson and gold, then release its leaves without regret into the wind, I discovered in that scene both the glory of life and the freedom of letting go.

Without realizing it, I had grown to love this tree. Yet since last summer, something began to trouble me each time I opened the front door. The branches of the dogwood had stretched so far that they seemed ready to intrude into the entryway. As I looked more closely, I saw the shape of the whole tree had become awkward. If I had trimmed the small branches in due season, it would have grown upright and strong. But left untended, its branches had thickened and sprawled, becoming unsightly.

I regretted not pruning earlier. And suddenly, it struck me: people are much like trees. If small habits and unchecked tendencies are not trimmed away in time, they can grow wild and become a greater pain in life. I recalled something that had hurt me deeply just a few days before, and then I realized—yes, even criticism and misunderstanding can sometimes be necessary for me. In that moment, it felt as if a healing light rose within my soul, like the morning sun breaking through the dark.

Life in the parsonage has its joys and fulfillment, but it also brings unexpected criticism and misunderstanding. At times, the wounds run so deep that I cannot even pray. Then, like a wounded creature, I kneel before God, groaning in silence, until at last I wipe away my tears and rise again. Yet often I find myself resenting the lack of recognition from others. I want to say: While you rested your weary body, I too was weary, yet I kept watch in prayer for you before God. While you suffered in pain, I shed tears, begging the Holy Spirit to grant you healing. When you wandered in the dark mountains of trial, I became a small firefly, praying with my hungry soul for your safety. Yet how easily you grumble and complain… Many times, I have felt the temptation to pour out my heart and reveal everything.

But I have come to realize that God uses even criticism and misunderstanding as His way of pruning me. He exposes my hidden sin—the desire for human praise, my secret delight in overestimation, my longing for comfort more than for God’s refining hand.

St. Francis once said: “If you are honored, accept it as gladly as if you were dishonored. If you are dishonored, accept it as gladly as if you were honored. If you rejoice in being honored for the sake of others, then likewise, even in dishonor, you should rejoice. Honor is good because it is returned to God, and dishonor is also good because it builds you up.”

I live surrounded by abundant love, more than I deserve, and perhaps this is why criticism, reproach, or insult has been harder for me to accept. Yet without the pruning that keeps my soul upright, how twisted and heavy would the branches of pride grow within me?

This morning, the tree that had been beaten all night by wind and storm greeted me once more, lifting its bare head as if nothing had happened. Quietly, I whispered to it:
“Tree, we are growing together, looking upward to higher places, aren’t we? We will endure the pain of pruning together. And when spring comes, both of us will bloom again, more beautiful and refined.”

The tree seemed to understand, for its branches swayed gently in the breeze.