Buried to Bloom: Hope After Being Cut Down

"For there is hope for a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that its shoots will not cease. Though its root grow old in the earth, and its stump die in the soil, yet at the scent of water it will bud and put out branches like a young plant." Job 14:7–9 (ESV)

I didn't expect to get upset over a stump.

But there I was—mud on my knees, sun warming my back, staring at the splintered remains of what used to be a blooming peach tree. It had been my favorite and bent with fruit every spring. Pink blossoms danced like confetti on the breeze until the storm came.

They said it was too damaged to save, so we cut it down. It looked dead, final, forgotten. But months later, something happened—small, stubborn shoots began pressing up from the base—green, defiant, and alive. And I broke again. Not because it was ugly… but because it was me. We all know what it feels like to be cut down.

Maybe you're there right now—your hope thinned out, joy leveled, dreams left in pieces after the storm. You've buried the thing you once prayed for. You've packed dirt over your heart, believing nothing beautiful could grow there again.

But God doesn't work with surface stories. He works in the deep. And Job knew it.

Most of us avoid Job's words unless we're looking for suffering. But hidden in his lament is a quiet, fierce kind of hope—a belief that God can still call it to life even when something looks dead—when the roots are brittle and buried, when the stump is left behind as a monument to loss. "At the scent of water it will bud…" Not a flood. Not a soaking rain. Just a scent. The slightest nearness of God's presence can stir life in what you thought was finished.

And here's where it gets wild—this isn't just your story. This is Jesus' story, too. He knows what it means to be cut down. To be buried. To be sealed in silence while the world moves on. But the grave didn't get the final word. Because resurrection isn't just what He did—it's who He is. And if He rose, so can you.

That's the whole heartbeat of our faith: What looks dead isn't always over. Buried things aren't always gone. And even when it feels like nothing's moving, God is still working beneath the surface.

So maybe this spring isn't about blooming overnight. Perhaps it's about trusting that God is already at work, even in the buried places. Because Jesus stepped out of the tomb, nothing in your life is beyond His reach.

Let me ask you something tender: What would it take for you to believe again? To hope again? To stretch toward God, not because everything's fixed, but because His presence is near?

We often want transformation to look flashy, visible, and immediate. But sometimes, it's slow and sacred. Sometimes, it starts underground, with a whisper instead of a roar. So here's what I'm learning to do. Maybe it'll help you too.

• I'm naming what's been cut down. Not avoiding it. Not pretending it didn't hurt. I'm honest with God—and with myself.

• I'm asking for the scent of water. Not everything. Just something. A verse that revives me. A moment of peace. A conversation that feels holy.

• I'm choosing to believe that resurrection doesn't just happen once. It happens daily. Slowly. Quietly. And it's coming for me, even when I feel like a stump in the dirt.

There's hope for the tree.

Even the one cut down.

Even the one that looks dead.

Because our God is not intimidated by broken things, He specializes in resurrection. He sees what still lies buried, waits to emerge, and holds potential—and He tenderly calls it forward.

So, friend…Don't count yourself out. Don't label the loss as final. Don't miss the miracle just because it's still underground. Spring is coming. And so are you. Because Jesus already did.

Reflection Questions:

1. What in your life feels cut down or buried right now?

2. How can you invite the "scent of water"—God's presence—into that space today?

3. What would change if you believed Jesus' resurrection wasn't just for eternity but for you today?

Prayer: Jesus, breathe life into the places I've given up on. Where I see stumps, remind me: You still see branches. Where I feel buried, remind me I'm being planted. Because You rose, I can rise. Let even the scent of Your presence stir new life in me. I trust You with what's still underground. Amen.

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Want to learn more about staying healthy and growing in your relationship with God? Check out my book Busting Barriers: Overcome Emptiness & Unleash Fruitful Living.