The Trellis on Maple Street

Every spring, Margaret Kowalski wages war with the wisteria in her backyard on Maple Street in Savannah. Left alone for a single season, the vine swallowed a birdbath, strangled a dogwood sapling, and cracked a section of her fence. Wisteria is gorgeous but ruthless — its energy is almost frightening.

But Margaret doesn't tear it out. She trains it along a cedar trellis her late husband built. She prunes the wild runners, ties new growth along the crossbeams, and redirects all that relentless vitality upward. Come April, the trellis erupts in cascading purple blooms that make her neighbors stop and stare.

Paul tells Titus that the grace of God "teaches us to say no to ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright and godly lives." That Greek word for "teaches" is paideuō — the same word used for training and disciplining. Grace doesn't just pardon us and leave. It stays in the garden. It prunes. It redirects.

We are not low-energy people. Our passions, ambitions, and appetites run wild with the force of wisteria. Grace doesn't kill that energy — it trains it. What once cracked foundations and choked good things now climbs toward the light and blooms into something breathtaking. That is what grace does. It doesn't make us less alive. It makes us beautifully directed.