When the Gardener Prunes

By: Carly Boerema

Sometimes renewal begins with subtraction. The position you didn’t get. The relationship that quietly unraveled. The version of life that once seemed to be working is suddenly gone. We don’t often call this renewal. We call it disappointment, confusion, loss. And yet, in John 15, Jesus says something that reframes these changes entirely: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit, he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” The branches that bear fruit are the very ones the Father prunes. Sometimes what is cut back was not wrong. It was beautiful—alive, growing, full of promise. And still, He cuts. 

There is a particular kind of disorientation that comes when something good is taken from you. It would in many ways be easier if the things that were pruned were clearly unhealthy. It might make sense if the door that closed had been obviously wrong, or if the relationship had been clearly broken beyond repair. But often, that’s not how it happens. Sometimes what is pruned is something you loved, something you once thanked God for, something that felt right. And when it’s gone, the questions come quickly: Did I do something wrong? Did I mishear Him? Was I not enough to keep this? We instinctively interpret loss as rejection. We assume that if something ended, it must mean we failed. But pruning tells a different story. 

In a garden, pruning is not an act of punishment; it is an act of intention and preparation. A good gardener does not cut randomly. He cuts with purpose. He removes what is good to make space for deeper growth. Not because the branch is lifeless, but because it is alive enough to grow further. Pruning increases light, redirects nutrients, and strengthens the structure of the vine. For a time, though, it doesn’t look like growth. It looks like wounding. 

It’s worth noticing that in John 15 there are two kinds of cutting. There are branches that do not bear fruit, which are removed and cast away, and branches that do bear fruit, which are pruned. From the outside, these cuts look similar, but the purpose is entirely different. One is about disconnection; the other is about deepening. One is the result of not remaining in the vine, while the other is the result of already being alive and connected. This distinction matters, because it means that not every loss is a sign of failure. Some losses are not evidence that something has gone wrong, but that something is being refined. The same shears are used, but in very different ways. 

It’s one thing to understand this in theory. It’s another to live through it. My junior year didn’t unravel slowly—it came crashing down all at once. The home that I loved grew complicated in ways I couldn’t fix from a distance. Broken pieces of my past resurfaced, bringing overwhelming grief. The relationship I’d prayed for turned toxic, shattering my sense of confidence and self-worth. Then my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and life seemed to rearrange itself around that reality. Somewhere in the middle of it all, my own body began to feel unfamiliar and health felt out of reach. It was loss layered upon loss, and to be honest, it did not feel like careful tending. It felt abrupt and disorienting, like I was being cut back so far there might be nothing left. If this was God at work, it certainly didn’t feel like pruning. It felt like being discarded. 

At first, I tried to keep up. I told myself I could manage it if I just stayed disciplined and strong, the version of myself I had always been. I filled my schedule, showed up where I was expected, worked harder than I needed to. I tried to keep producing in order to prove that nothing had really changed. I tried to convince myself that effort could outpace my grief. I quickly discovered there is a limit to how long you can pretend something is still growing once it’s been cut. I was more tired than I could explain. My prayers felt less like communing with the Lord and more like a desperate cry. The things that used to come naturally—energy, motivation, even joy—felt so far away. I didn’t have language for it then, but I can see it now: this was winter, the season of pruning. 

What makes pruning especially difficult is the waiting that follows. After something is cut back, there is no immediate bloom, no visible reward, and no clear evidence that anything good is coming from the loss. There is simply space, scars that need to heal, and the slow work of roots deepening beneath the surface. For those who are used to movement, progress, and building, this can feel like stagnation. But it is not stagnation. It is preparation. 

There’s something humbling about realizing you cannot make yourself grow, and that no amount of effort can replace what only the Lord can sustain. Jesus says quite the opposite: “No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.” I believed that if I stayed faithful enough or worked hard enough, I could keep my life from unraveling. But that year exposed the limits of that belief. “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you abide in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” Here, Jesus doesn’t say, “Go be productive and successful.” He says, “Abide.” His call is to remain connected to him. To trust that life flows from the Vine, not from our striving. In seasons of pruning, abiding can feel too simplistic, almost wasteful. There is nothing to prove, nothing to rebuild right away, no immediate next step to secure—only the quiet invitation to stay. To trust that being held is more important than being impressive. 

Over time, something in my heart began to shift. Not in the way I expected, but slowly, new growth began to appear. For me, this looked like a deeper sense of trust in the Father’s provision, a clearer understanding of what really matters, a greater capacity for compassion, and an understanding of loss and suffering not jaded by bitterness, but rather as an avenue for increased grace and worship. The fruit that comes after pruning is often quieter and less performative, but it is lasting, and the joy of this harvest is sweet. 

Renewal, then, is not always about starting over. It is not always bright or immediate or visible. Sometimes, renewal looks like being gently, deliberately cut back and still choosing to trust the purpose of the shears. It looks like releasing what you loved without fully understanding why. It looks like staying connected even when growth feels far off. It looks like believing that a season of loss means dormancy, but not death. Because the Gardener is not careless. He sees the whole of the vine. He knows what each branch can become. And He is committed, not to your immediate comfort, but to your lasting fruit. 

So if you find yourself in a season where something has been taken, where life feels smaller than it did before, or where you are tempted to believe you have been set back, consider the possibility that you are being tended. Not abandoned, or overlooked, or destroyed, but pruned. And that, in time, this too will become a kind of renewal.

Carly Boerema | ‘23

I graduated from Hillsdale in 2023, and have worked for the College’s Student Affairs department since. I currently enjoy serving as Ministry Associate for the Chaplain’s Office and as house director for Sohn. 

Phone:  (231) 492-5816

Email: cboerema@hillsdale.edu