“This tree works the same as a vine.” He held a small branch between his fingers and turned to Abby. “Where does the life of this tree originate—deep inside the tree or in this little branch?”

Trees, at least, were one topic Abby did know about. “Deep inside.”

“Right, but how do you know? You can’t tell by looking on the outside.”

“Because a branch by itself doesn’t grow.”

“Correct. It has no life of its own. It receives life. Abby, you are this branch. You aren’t the source of the life.” He motioned with his head toward the tree. “The tree is. God is. He is the source of spiritual life within you. As the tree produces fruit, so God produces life. His own life. Only he can do that. Why would we think we can produce the life of God—or that God expects us to?”

He looked again at the branch. “This branch bears fruit just by staying connected to the tree. It’s a conduit. It doesn’t have to work hard. Now, what if I break off the branch”—he snapped it off—“and you plant it in the ground.” He handed the branch to Abby. “How much fruit is that branch going to produce now?”

“None. By itself, a branch can’t produce fruit.”

“Right. It won’t produce a single”—he looked at the tree again—“pecan, I believe. If it tries to work hard and produce pecans on its own, it fails. God designed it that way. It only bears pecans by resting in the tree.

“Like this branch, Abby, you can try as hard as you want, but you can’t produce the life of God. It’s impossible; we all fail at it. We can’t come close to producing the life the New Testament describes. It’s God’s life. But though we can’t produce it, we can express it—as the branch does. We do that by simply staying connected to him, by trusting him to live his life through us. That’s what he’s in you to do—live his own life.”

She stared at him, confused. “But it can’t be that easy. I can’t just sit around all day saying, ‘I’m connected to him.’ I have to do something.”

He smiled. “Let me tell you what you can do. You mentioned the woman you spoke with in Dallas. When…” He paused momentarily. “Our time is up. I don’t want you jerked away again without being able to say good-bye.”

Abby felt incomplete, as if the truth she sought had somehow eluded her. “Poppy, we can’t stop here.”

“We can do this for only ten minutes, Abby. That’s what Agent—”

“Just three more minutes. I want to finish what we started. I’m not sure I’m getting what you’re saying.”