Psalm 5

I stand in the morning sun, perplexed by the sight before me. There is a row of clean, newly shorn weeds near the fence line, and little order elsewhere. The bench stands firm at my feet, but its strength is unable to ward off the impending chaos. There is no order to the garden, and it begs for my labors, for my sweat and my humble hours, to restore order to the chaotic bramble that has become my soul.

But in the midst of this disorder I pause for a moment, remembering the purpose of my journey here. I have not come to cleanse this place in order to take satisfaction in my labors. I have not come so that I might carve out some chunk of immortality for my human body. I am not here, armed with gardening tools diverse and varied, so that the human eye might be appealed, although I certainly hope that it might. I have come in order to take part in what God has created, and to merge my soul with God’s intentions. I have come to weedeat in the garden so that the beauty God has molded in this place might shine forth for the glory of God.

In my younger days I took the beauty for granted and neglected it, assuming that its brilliance was enough to shine forth through me despite my selfishness and greed. It is only in recent years that I have noticed that God does not delight in my wicked ways. The beauty and delight of God are still present, but I have managed to smudge my fingerprints so densely upon the looking glass that when peering into the garden of my soul one has to strain to see the roses peeking forth. The slow realization of the effects of my chaotic lifestyle brought me to my knees here in the garden, where I resolved to bow in the temple, to be led by my Lord, to straighten out the path before my feet. Only now do I recognize the destruction creeping throughout the garden, in the crabgrass and the clover, ugliness choking me off from life.

Even in the face of such dark power, overwhelmed by the desire to act, to continue my Herculean task here in the garden, I pause, knowing what I must do first.
My feet lead me several feet away from the gate, where my tools lie, to the nearest bed, once neatly bordered with stones, now demarcated from the path by the weeds piled on the stone, where, from the midst of that chaos, beauty deeper than blood winks forth. Here is a rose, colored red by a creator who creates depth I cannot fully comprehend, that is so brilliant in its beauty I cannot move, speak or act. I simply stand before it, trying to come up with words or phrases to thank God for such wonder here in the garden of my soul, but all my songs sound inadequate before true beauty.

In that moment I pray that I may never forget to worship, even in the face of dauntless, unending work. May I never stop to take a moment and simply stand in awe of all that God has done. While my labors here in the garden are important, they pale in comparison to the importance of worship. God desires a heart, a soul in worship, and while it is vital for that soul to be a work in progress, it is also important to remember that I am a child of the covenant, in communion with God, and to remember that at all times I am called to bow before the holy throne of my creator. Sometimes that may look like weedeating along the fenceline, but at other times it may simply be a silent moment, wrapped in delight, a song to which I do not know the words bursting forth from a place buried deep within the garden, worship the type of which I can only take part, I cannot lead. I pray that my life may include more moments before the roses, inhaling the scent of the holy and praising God for the chance to tend to my garden, thanking God for the life that God has planted here, without my knowledge, beyond my power, but for God’s glory, not my own.