O Lord, let this garden be a place of refuge. I place great trust in you, O Lord, in the hopes that you might save me from my enemies who pursue me. I could feel their breath upon my heels as I walked other paths; the easy way is a way of deception, a lie that is woven more thickly with every wayward step. My enemies pursued me in the hopes of overtaking me, of dragging me away, of destroying this garden. I could hear their taunting cries, their mocking laughter as I tried to stumble forward, and in my despair I cried out for help. Did I deserve to suffer death at their hands? Had I made my own life worthless? Was my garden unworthy of the beauty you have planted there?
Here in my garden I have always found sanctuary, trusting in your gracious hand to protect me. I now know, as my hand caresses the wound upon my wrist, that all will not be painless, that my task will not be one of ease, but that you will protect me here in this place. My enemies will smash themselves against the fence, but they will not prevail, even though my fence is worn down and rotted in places. Those loose boards are made strong by the master gardener who built this garden and gifted it to me. Their strength I do not understand, but I take refuge in the enemies who cannot defeat this place. It is my strong shield, my protector, my defender.
Lord, I have fled from your wrath. My garden was in such disrepair that I was certain you would destroy me. My wayward paths led through thick forests and swampy marshes in the hopes I could elude you. I imagined you hunting me, weary of my empty prayers and void promises to come and tend to the garden. Surely you had given up hope that I would ever do true work here in the garden, so there was no purpose to my existence. Perhaps this garden could be given to another who would be more grateful, more loving. I certainly had not invited others into the garden to view the beauty of your love; why would you sustain me?
But somehow I have returned to the garden. You have not destroyed me, nor let punishment afflict me. I have fled from my enemies, who pursued me at my heels at times, other times preferring to lurk in the shadows, but you have held me in your hand. I have known others who have been swallowed by their guilt, by their shame, by their self-deceit, but I have amended my ways. It is my life’s promise, the song I pray to sing for the rest of my days, that I will tend to this garden, trusting in you to keep my enemies shaking behind the fence, rattling their chains and chanting their threats, but unable to breathe their threats in my ears. Perhaps the occasional beesting will find me, but I know that is a price I must pay to tend to this blessed garden. My life will give thanks, Lord, and my garden will sing praise to you, Most High. I have fled long enough; I recognize the futility, the emptiness, of life beyond this garden, of the destination of those other paths. They all lead to one place, and I long only to stay here in the garden and praise your name.
Still standing at the gate, the sun now high overhead, my gloved hands find the weedeater, examine its casing to ensure no harm has come to it during the night, and begin to marvel at the power held within. It does not differentiate between weed and wonder, between rock and rose. It is I who must guide it, who must place it in the darkest corners of my soul and let it work, clearing out my weeds and carving a swath where beauty will prevail.
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