Today I am in Parabolic Mode.
And that’s because Jesus just illustrated a life lesson to me through a floricultural fiasco.
Allow me to elucidate.
I spent this morning helping my helper extract the insidious roots of a swiftly foliating, flourishing papaya tree that had been cannibalising my Easter lily bulbs.
It was an operation that required more strength and dexterity than we had an abundance of, thus quite a few bruises were collected by my intrepid helper at the end of it.
But it had to get done. These bulbs had been gifted to me by my mum more than two decades ago. She had smuggled them into Singapore on one of her visits, and ever since then I had been possessively carting them around with me to every house we rented over the years.
When we finally moved into our own apartment, these bulbous relics also finally settled into their own promised land — the sill outside my bedroom window. Each time the stalks burgeoned forth with their glorious multicoloured blooms, my heart would burst forth with joy and sentimental nostalgia.
Until one day, when I noticed that the bulbs had become dry and impotent, their leaves wilting listlessly, looking quite anemic and depressed. Instead of standing tall and proud, poised to host flowers again, they were leaning over the concrete edge as though contemplating suicide.
The truth was far more sinister. They were actually being murdered. And never in my wildest imagination would I have suspected that the cute little papaya shoot popping up in one corner of the sill was the nefarious culprit.
Countless attempts to revive and rejuvenate my beloved bulbs through potions and soil additives failed. Finally, out of desperation, I turned to ChatGPT for help.
By then, the papaya tree had begun to resemble a short, dandy palm tree which was rather endearing, actually. Every time I looked at it, I would get transported to a sun-soaked beach in Goa, savouring chilli prawns and chilled beer by the bobbing waves.
But when I read what ChatGPT had to say, I was horrified.
This intruder had been silently spreading its roots underground, strangling the life and nutrition from my bulbs while charming me with its innocent appearance above the surface.
It’s agenda wasn’t to co-exist; it was to conquer completely.
The plot had been exposed.
It was time for judgment and exile.
Nothing — however charming — was going to destroy the legacy of fruitfulness and beauty my mother had entrusted to me.
It had to go.
But uprooting it was no easy task: the roots had woven themselves far and deep. There was much scraping, twisting, pulling — and praying — before those life-sapping tendrils were finally wrenched out, and my distressed plants reinstated in their rightful place.
All through that entire process, two Scriptures were ringing loudly in my spirit:
“See to it that no one fails to obtain the grace of God; that no root of bitterness springs up and causes trouble, and by it many become defiled.” — Hebrews 12:15
“You shall not sow your vineyard with two kinds of seed, lest the whole yield be forfeited…” — Deuteronomy 22:9
The second verse was really for my helper who had planted the papaya seeds without informing me — yet it also carried a warning for my own heart. I should have been more watchful over the state of my field, guarding it even against well-meaning hands.
But the “root of bitterness” Scripture came alive as a Rhema word for me — intensely visual, intensely real. To see how one hidden root had defiled and weakened my innocent bulbs, producing fruitlessness and apathy, was almost frightening.
And suddenly the parable wrote itself.
How often do we tolerate something seemingly innocent and cute without putting it through our ‘’discernometer”?
How often do we procrastinate in releasing/requesting forgiveness, unaware that defilement is spreading swiftly and malevolently in our souls?
Bitterness rarely announces itself loudly. It grows quietly. It spreads invisibly.
And while we admire the visible foliage, our spiritual inheritance slowly starves.
Jesus warned us about roots — the hidden systems beneath the soil of our hearts.
Left unchecked, they entangle, suffocate, and redefine the landscape God originally planted.
But here is the mercy of God: exposure precedes restoration.
The moment the roots were uncovered, the healing process began. The soil was loosened. Space was reclaimed and light began to reach places that had been deprived for too long.
And perhaps that is the invitation for us today — to become vigilant gardeners of our own window sills.
Let’s together ask the Holy Spirit:
What has quietly taken root beneath the surface of my soul? What appears harmless, yet is stealing nourishment from the things You planted in me?
Because sometimes revival does not begin with planting something new — it begins with uprooting what never belonged there.
My lilies may take time to bloom again. Restoration is rarely instant. But their roots are breathing once more, and hope has returned to the sill.
And as I stood there brushing damp soil from my hands, I sensed the whisper of the Lord to me:
“Guard your garden. Discern your soil. And never be afraid to uproot what threatens the legacy of life I have entrusted to you.”
So help us all, Holy Spirit; Divine Helper.
