Fiona Veitch Smith

A Requiem for Holly

It snowed again this week. And once again my garden looked beautiful. But there was one thing missing: my potted holly tree that used to stand against the back fence. I bought the tree when it was just a wee bairn, four years ago. I decked it out with bits and baubles and brought it inside as an avant garde Christmas tree. My mother tried to hide her horror and each year since has politely enquired if I’m finally going to get a ‘proper’ tree.

But I loved it, even if I had to tie faux berries on, and repotted it every year after stripping the seasonal glitz and releasing it back into the elements. This year, sadly, my holly bush was in no fit state to usher in the yuletide as when I came back from my sunshine break in South Africa, I found it floundering in the jasmine. A winter gale had blown it over, pot and all, and I hadn’t been there to pick it up and whisper comforting words as I took it into the car port for shelter. And the most tragic thing of all: it had finally produced berries.

Death throes

I tried to stabilize it with a couple of strong sticks of bamboo, but it wasn’t enough. So I took some string and strapped it to a fence post, thinking that a bit of flexibility might help it to rock but not to fall. I’d just seen something similar on a documentary about skyscrapers, so I thought it was a good idea. I was wrong. One day I returned from the shops to see my beloved holly throttled and hanging pitifully from the gate post. It was a sad scene of execution, or, perhaps, suicide. Afterall, who would want me as their gardener?

It reminds me of all the times I’ve tried to save people. I remember when I was just married, my husband was shocked to discover I’d given our spare room to a homeless druggie. That night Rod slept with a hammer while Thatcher the Alsatian lay at our bedroom door growling softly. The next day I got up and cooked us all a hearty breakfast. I announced that I was going to find our new friend somewhere to live and made enquiries at a drug rehab centre on a farm nearby. It was run by Christians, and, so I reckoned, must have been in God’s plan for our guest. It was God, afterall, who had brought him to me, wasn’t it?

Saving grace

But our guest refused to go. And Rod, eventually, had to kick him out. I was confused and embarrassed and questioned God. How could my attempts to save this man have been treated with such disdain? ‘And how could mine?’ answered God. People need to want to be saved. And they need to be saved by someone equipped to do it. Yes, my heart was in the right place, but my head wasn’t really on straight. It reminds me of Moses when he intervened in a fight between an Israelite and an Egyptian. But rather than being thanked he was driven away into the desert. Forty years later he finally met God and was equipped and ready to do God’s saving work.

So what of my holly bush? When the snow clears I’m going to try and repot it. With God’s help, it might still be saved.

After this I heard what sounded like the roar of a great multitude in heaven shouting: Hallelujah! Salvation and glory and power belong to our God, for true and just are his judgements.
Revelation 19:1

This is the fourth in a series of A Gardener’s Gospel. I plan to give you regular updates letting you know how it’s going in my garden and hope that you will be encouraged to keep on working in yours. Please feel free to leave comments below and let other readers know how it’s going in your garden.

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