Wholeness: A Word for 2020
Scarlett the Frankenstein tree
“This is the season she will make beautiful things. Not perfect things but honest things that speak to who she is and who she is called to be.” ― Morgan Harper Nichols
Shortly after my husband and I moved into our home 10 years ago, we planted a tree in the front yard. Since she is a blaze maple that turns bright red in the fall, we named her Scarlett. Each year, my husband stands beside her for a photo so we can document how much she has grown, and it’s a joy to see her leaves bud out each spring and then change a brilliant red each fall.
Somehow Scarlett has survived me forgetting to water her, deer rubbing their antlers on her trunk, bunnies eating her bark from their perches on snow drifts, and her first major trimming. Each time, the event left a scar of sorts, but she keeps growing, keeps leafing out each spring, and keeps turning red each fall.
In September 2019, before Scarlett’s leaves started to change, we woke up one morning to devastation in our neighborhood. Three tornadoes had touched down in Sioux Falls overnight, and while their paths didn’t cross our neighborhood, the high winds and a very wet year combined to rip 40-year-old trees out of the ground by their roots. Many landed across streets and on houses and vehicles. Thankfully, the two huge spruce trees that fell in our yard missed our home. Somehow.
I took the scene pretty well through my sleepy eyes until I walked out front and noticed Scarlett’s new scars. The high winds had been too much even for a smaller, young tree, and her trunk was beginning to split in half from the top down. My eyes welled up with tears. Someone else had planted those old spruce trees, but Scarlett was ours.
I posted photos of the destruction in our yard on Facebook, and a couple friends saw Scarlett and knew they could help. They came over with all the tools to cinch her tight, drill holes through her trunk, and secure bolts with washers and nuts to hold her together. Within minutes, she was a Frankenstein tree and had a few scars we put there on purpose to make her whole again.
In contrast, my own pursuit of wholeness has usually meant a pursuit of perfection. I have been a perfectionist since my toys and stuffed animals all had to be lined up just right before I could go to bed as a toddler. I bought my first planner in fifth grade. Being organized and on top of things is one of my defining traits. But I am learning being whole has nothing to do with striving for perfection.
Wholeness is recognizing the areas of our lives we don’t appreciate and understanding how they make us who we are.
Wholeness is sitting in the church pew remembering the people in our lives who are missing and knowing some holes can never be filled.
Wholeness is acknowledging our scars, each weakness and failing, and still knowing we are valuable and loved. And even loving all of those things about ourselves.
Wholeness also is not shying away from our strengths, not minimizing them or diminishing them because we want to make others feel better about themselves.
Wholeness is agreeing to believe we are complete right now. Nothing more is necessary for us to be enough.
Wholeness is my word for 2020 because my efforts toward perfection have left too many scars of their own. It was a pointless, disappointing, and destructive journey that was never going to end well. Instead of focusing on the microscopic details of my life, I need to recognize myself more as a whole person and be proud of who and where I am right now, today.
This is new territory for me. 40 years as a perfectionist will take a while to deconstruct. But even that history is part of what makes me whole.
Scarlett did turn red this past fall, even with three long bolts piercing her trunk. Her bright leaves lasted for what seemed like forever this year, too. But the true test of Scarlett’s wholeness will come this spring when her leaves either bud or don’t. If she makes it, some day her bark will even cover the washers and nuts to the point that no one but us will know she was ever ready to split in two.
When I look back on 2020 someday and remember the times I was ready to split in two, I will recognize the scars where the bolts, washers, and nuts are holding me together. That’s wholeness. And each season between now and then will be an opportunity to celebrate the buds, leaves, brilliance, and starkness of life.