How majestic is the beauty within. I go about my labors, but I am distracted, constantly turning away, my eyes finding their way to stare at the roses mired within the weeds. How majestic they are. I try to weedeat around the paths, but I cannot concentrate. As my eyes wander so, too, do my hands, and soon my feet are aching from being dealt blows by the weedeater. I turn it off and set it down, in awe of the beauty contained within this place.
I stare into the heavens, and still there is beauty. Clouds drift across a cerulean sky, concentrating in number and writing messages of love and wonder in the atmosphere. The contrast between the perfect blue and the pure white brings awe.
My gaze lingers to this garden and its perfect rows. I wander up and down them, my hands outstretched, gloves removed, brushing the tips of the weeds. Even their rough handshakes cannot distract my awe-struck mind. How majestic is this place.
I begin to realize what a privilege it is to be back tending to this place. For so long I ran from it, wandered away from it, and rarely gave it thought. I have returned to tend to my garden, but only now do I see what responsibility has been laid before me. Who am I that such a garden should have been planted? What am I that I can stand in this place and gaze upon the marvels here? Should I be so blessed as to have the chance to wander through this gate and hold the dirt between my fingers? I am a mere mortal, so far beneath the heavens that I can scarcely imagine the beginning of God, and yet here I am, in this garden, containing such beauty. Here I am, with works of absolute beauty in my charge. I deserve no such privilege, and yet it is here, and I cannot leave it.
For so many years I wandered, and now I see how lost and proud I was, to assume that such a gift was not the greatest thing that could be given to me. My arrogance tended to the weeds rather than the beauty, and for this reason I now have years of work before me. Only my humility could begin such a task, and while I should have crawled back on hands and knees, I instead marched through the gate like the owner of this garden. But I have come to work, and labor I shall. No opportunity could be as great as the chance to tend to this garden while I am here. Even though my arm may throb, even though I may not pull every weed, I devote myself to the tending of this garden, to the appreciation and gratitude for its beauty, and to the glory of something far greater than myself. No other task is worthy of my utmost labor.
No comments:
Post a Comment