"God is the Gardner" Selection - Hugh B. Brown

Selection from Hugh B. Brown's "God is the Gardner"

Sixty odd years ago I was on a farm in Canada. I had purchased this from another who had been somewhat careless in keeping it up. And I went out one morning and found a currant bush at least six feet high. I knew that it was going all to wood. There was no sign of blossom or fruit. I had had some experience in pruning trees before we left Salt Lake to go to Canada, as my father had a fruit farm. I got my pruning sheers and went to work on that currant bush. And I clipped it, and cut it, and cut it down, until there was nothing left but a little clump of stumps.

As I looked at them, I yielded to an impulse which I often have, to talk with inanimate things, and have them talk to me. It’s a ridiculous habit, but one I can’t overcome. As I looked at this little clump of stumps, there seemed to be a tear on each one. And I said, “What’s the matter, currant bush? What are you crying about?” And I thought I heard that currant bush speak. It seemed to say, “How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as large as the fruit tree and the shade tree. And now you’ve cut me down. And all in the garden will look upon me with contempt and pity. How could you do it? I thought you were the gardener here?”

I thought I heard that from the currant bush. I thought it so much that I answered it. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here. And I know what I want you to be. If I let you go the way you want to go, you’ll never amount to anything. But someday, when you’re laden with fruit, you’re going to think back and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down; for loving me enough to hurt me.’”

Ten years passed and I found myself in Europe. I had made some progress in the First World War in the Canadian Army, in fact I was a field officer. There was only one man between me and the rank of General, which I cherished in my heart for years. And then he became a casualty. And the day after I received a telegraph from London from General Turner in charge of all Canadian officers. He said, “Be in my office tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.” I puffed up. I called my special servant, they call them batmen over there. I said, “Polish my boots and my buttons. Make me look like a General, because I’m going up tomorrow to be appointed. He did the best he could with what he had to work on, and I went to London.

I walked into the office of the General, I saluted him smartly, and he replied to my salute as higher officers usually do to juniors, sort of a ‘get out of the way, worm.’ Then he said, “Sit down, Brown.” I was deflated. I sat down. And he said, “Brown, you’re entitled to this promotion, but I cannot make it. You have qualified, passed the regulations, you have had the experience. You’re entitled to it in every way but I can’t make this appointment.” Just then he went in to the other room to answer a phone call and I did what most every officer or man in the army would do under those circumstances: I looked over on his desk to see what my personal history sheet showed. And I saw on the bottom of that history sheet in large capital letters, “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.” Now at that time we were hated heartily in Britain. And I knew why he couldn’t make the appointment. Finally he came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.” I saluted him less heartily than before and went out.

On my way back to Shorncliff 120 miles away, I thought every turn of the wheel or crack across the rails was saying, “You’re a failure. You must go home and be called a coward by those who do not understand.” And bitterness rose in my heart until when I arrived finally in my tent, I threw rather vigorously my cap on the cot together with my Sam Brown belt. I clenched my fist and I shook it at heaven. And I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything that I knew how to do to hold the standards of the Church. I was making such wonderful growth, and now you’ve cut me down. How could you do it?”

Then I heard a voice. It sounded like my own voice. And the voice said, “I’m the Gardener here. I know what I want you to be. If I let you go the way you want to go you’ll never amount to anything. And someday, when you are ripened in life, you’re going to shout back across time and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down; for loving me enough to hurt me.’”

With those words which I recognized now as my words to the currant bush, which had become God’s word to me, I fell to my knees and prayed for forgiveness for my arrogance and my ambition. As I was praying there, I heard some Mormon boys in an adjoining tent singing the closing number of an MIA session, which I usually attended with them. And I recognized these words which all of you have memorized:

It may not be at the mountain peeks

Or over the storming sea,

It may not be at the battle front

That my Lord will have need of me.

But trusting my all in thy tender care,

And knowing thou lovest me

I’ll do thy will with a heart sincere.

I’ll be what you want me to be.

            My young friends and brothers and sisters, will you remember that little experience which changed my whole life? Where the Gardner took control and did for me what was best for me. For if I had gone the way I wanted to go I would have returned to Canada as the senior commanding officer of western Canada. I would have raised my family in a barracks. My six daughters would have had little chance to marry in the Church. I myself would probably have gone down and down. I do not know what might have happened. But this I know, and this I say to you, and to him in your presence: looking back over sixty years, “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down.”