My eyes adjust to the fading light, here in the twilight of the day. The sun nears the completion of its daily journey as the trees reach up to accept its offering of light and my energy, my zeal, fades along with it. I stand in awe of the beauty stretching across the sky and am overwhelmed by my smallness here in my garden. Trees reach heavenward and dwarf my being; grass races as far as the eye can see; even the garden of my soul is lost in comparison to the size of the forest. Its beauty may be beyond compare, but it does not stand tall and proud like the mighty oak; it does not spread a canopy like the elm; it does not impact the ground the way the ash does. It merely rests, here in this beautiful, sunny spot of delight, and shares its wealth with me and all others whose path leads them near my garden.
The stars begin to wink, one by one, greeting me in their cosmic way, welcoming me into a reality far greater than I can begin to understand. I look up at first in joy, and then in wonder, and then, as I am staring into a mystery I cannot unravel, fear swallows me and I grow dizzy.
I cannot speak to the mystery of the stars, or understand the whirling planets. Who am I to tend this garden, here in this quaint verdant scene, when stars are coming in and out of being across the galaxy? My voice begins to cry out to the emptiness, but before it can escape my throat it dies, lost in the vastness of space, pointless in its very existence; I cannot protest my smallness to the universe—what are my cries to such imposing emptiness?
I look down, to the weedy garden, and even the weeds seem to taunt my presence, for they will continue to grow long after I come to tend to my garden. In my short time they have overwhelmed to the point of despair; even my frantic labors are only delaying the inevitable, right? They number in the thousands while I, a lone, passionate gardener, pluck at their roots with stiff fingers and aching joints. My foes outnumber me, and they intimidate my very being.
It is at this point, the point of darkness, the evening’s triumphal entry, when the garden beckons me inward. I tread lightly, afraid of crushing some invaluable treasure with my clumsy feet in the oily darkness when I am halted by a stone presence. I had not noticed it before, in my busy-ness, but hands inspect this heavy being and I recognize it as a bench, intricately carved beneath my amazed fingers. A craftsman made this, and such an object, while made to be venerated, is also created to be used.
I ease my sore body down onto it, but it beckons me closer, deeper, and as a groan escapes my lips I pivot and recline on the bench until I am completely horizontal, and from within the hard stone a warmth and a comfort emerges and ensnares me. It is as though a shield encloses the bench, and myself with it, and I lie down with such peace that my eyes begin to close and my mind ceases to wonder at my pitiful smallness and instead begins to concentrate on the fullness of the One who created, and creates. I remember that the beauty in the garden is not my own, and it is with peace that I sleep, safe in the arms of the one who delivers me from temptation, from the arms of my enemies, who seek to create despair and sow disorder. Here, on this bench, I find refuge from the storm, peace for my soul, wonder for my mind and love for the garden. It is my sanctuary from the world, created just for me, so that I might remember the Lord of heaven and earth, the Creator, the Redeemer, the Deliverer.
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