Psalm 4

I am awakened by the breaking of the dawn, soft lights dancing across the artist’s palette, beauty beginning to stretch its way across the still dark sky. All of creation is waiting for this moment, this genesis upon this patch of earth. The story of the day is beginning, and I lie, still as can be, simply watching. What else can I do but stare in wonder at the story being told in the heavens?

As the dawn has broken the night, the birds, too, break the stillness of night and begin calling to one another, bursting forth with song as the entire forest surrounding this place suddenly erupts in song. The trees do not loom near, but it is as though I am resting in their branches, so prolific is the sound.

Something within has awakened as well. My soul stirs, and the garden around me seems to tremble with possibility. The dew is soft upon the upturned branches, upon the roughshod soil, upon my very self. Nothing has been written in the grass or the weedy path as yet, and I hesitate to stir and disturb this universe within the fence. I long for the moment to last forever, to stretch into eternity and carry me with it, wrapped in my arms.
But work remains to be done.

Perhaps I had expected to wake and see the work completed. Perhaps I had not thought my body would suffer the effects of my labors. Perhaps I thought any number of things, but upon my first movement my body screamed in protest. The muscles in my back wanted nothing to do with my desire to rise. The bench that had once been so inviting was now exacting its revenge as my body has suffered by sleeping on its hard surface. The bench’s efforts had been joined by the time spent with the weedeater hanging by its strap; when the muscle’s screams met the vision before my eyes, I once again begin to despair.

How long must I suffer this shame? How long must I be in this distressful garden? When will hope begin to show?

I remember the fleeting moments of hope yesterday, the promising beginnings, but they are lost before my eyes, within my pain. Hope seems to be a luxury in the face of the remaining fortress of weeds that surrounds me. Even the feet of the bench are covered in climbing weeds I cannot identify. Surely hope can be banished for now, until the ground is tilled and the paths reclaimed. Surely hope cannot dwell with aches and pains within me.

But there is hope. I cannot say from where it comes, but indeed it does come and soothe my soul. It is not a balm for my back, not blinders for my eyes, but it is a sense within my heart that all will be well. I was never expected to cleanse this garden in a day; not was there thought given that I could do this on my own. It is a process, a lifelong one that will only be completed when my journey is complete and I have found my way home. Even when it is beautiful and seems spotless I know that there will be weeds taking root, seeking light, seeking water and the chance to exploit my comfort. There is always work.

But there is always hope. The sun is beginning to rise from beneath the covers of the horizon and bathe the world in light; in its light I find light. In its warmth I find warmth. In the path that awaits it I find the desire to walk my own path, to continue my own journey. I feel the dampness of my dewy shirt beginning to give way to a warm dryness that can penetrate far deeper than the cold. I feel the gloves, never removed, beginning to flex with my fingers and watch as the dried clumps of dirt fall free. I feel a gladness welling up from within and I smile as my feet feel strong beneath me. ‘I am hope’, I say to myself as a grin mirrors the light streaking in the morning sky. ‘Today,’ I repeat, ‘I am hope.’