Trepidation races from the tips of my fingers to the depths of my soul as the cold, unforgiving steel greets my hand. It has been a long time since this latch has been touched, and it hesitates, uncertain if I am the one to disturb its slumber. I press harder, and while the latch is free, the aged, fading gate remains closed. The hinges have seized with rust, and despite my tremulous tugs it refuses to budge. An icy feeling races through me as the rust reminds me how long it has been since I’ve tended to the garden.
The rust on the hinges stands in contrast to the new crackle of my garden gloves. They are still stiff with their freshness, joined in bright optimism by gleaming steel tools in my work bucket. I have come prepared, but had not expected to meet challenges this early. I was unprepared for a sentry, and began to question myself and my dedication. Other footpaths traced their way around this garden, ones well-trodden by my unfaithful feet, paths that lead towards the gate and then veer off at varying distances into the smoother grass nearby. I hear the wind in the nearby trees as squirrels chatter from its trunk and for a second some invisible force beckons me in their direction.
I feel my heel grind in the soil as my foot turns and then, just as suddenly, something within me plants it firmly in the ground. Parts of my body may seek to wander, but some resolution, not of my own making, fixes my eyes upon this weedy tangle of a garden. I will tend to this garden. I will not choose the counsel of the wicked that has led me astray so many times, to the alluring, verdant pastures where ease awaits. I will refuse to stand by and watch a lazy river trickle by why hard work awaits my idle hands. I will choose the strenuous work that makes my back tired and my fingers stiff as the new gloves. I will choose the law of the Lord, for while the easy way beckons, the beauty of a well-tended garden is beyond compare and lasts forever.
I tug once, twice more at the gate, and finally some ancient hesitancy gives way and the gate swings open with a feeble creek, the sound of opportunities passing by and dedication stepping in. My once wayward foot leads my flabby body across the weedy threshold and I begin to smile despite the seemingly hopeless mess that awaits my attention, for I know that redemption lies within, and I can catch fleeting glimpses of furtive roses surveying the premises for daylight, for hope. It is for those precious roses I have come.
But before I can tend to the beautiful I must tend to the ugly, the twisted and evil weeds that threaten to bar my progress. I begin at the beginning, here at the threshold to beauty, and stoop down. I place an untarnished kneepad on the soft soil, feeling it squish beneath my weight, and reach down to take hold of the weed at the foot of the fencepost that welcomed me to the garden with disdain and displeasure. I wrap my emboldened fingers around its once-proud neck and pause to consider what is happening. I am beginning to reclaim my garden, on this sunny day, having waited for the rains to pass before venturing out. I begin to tug, but stop when I meet resistance. The weed is reminding me, in its final moments, that this will not be easy. Those weeds, vines and trees that have taken root will not come forth without protest; for years they have wrapped their roots deep within the once-fertile and still-living soil, grasping for scarce nutrients and accustomed to having their way. They have reached for the sun and succeeded in overwhelming many of the seeds I have, on rare occasion, sought to nurture. Water has been gulped by these invaders, leaving little to none for those plants I treasure. My resources have been spilled carelessly into the soil, nurturing weeds and ignoring beauty.
No more. Here I stand, in this garden, ready to begin. My grasp tightened, and I felt a strength not of my own join in my feeble effort and yank the weed from the ground. It came forth, easier than I had thought, roots trailing behind screaming in protest. It was lighter than I expected, and with great vigor and might I hurled it like a hated ball over the garden fence, watching with satisfaction as it flew higher and farther than I could have managed on my own.
“The Lord watches over the righteous,” I said with gratitude, as I looked skyward and felt the warmth of the sun upon my face. It has been years, but there is still hope for this overgrown garden with its dilapidated fence. Redemption is still here, within this place.
I have begun.
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