Here in the beauty of this blessed place, I bow my head in worship. Only you, O Lord, can protect me from the chaos that lurks beyond this place. Long moments pass as I consider all that it means for me to spend my time in this blessed garden. I have no idea what the future holds, but I trust that in the Lord I will be safe from what lurks beyond this place. In choosing to join in the destruction of the weeds, in choosing to feed the beauty within, in choosing to spend my days ensuring that the garden of my soul is a well-tended place, I have cast my lot here, in this pleasant place, where I am content to let my soul run its race.
I have no interest in what lies beyond, as often as it may call. I cannot say for certain that I will never chase that siren’s song again, but my heart is here, and even when my feet carry me elsewhere, I shall return to this place, the only home I have.
With that in mind I bow once again, in worship, yes, but in toil as well. No longer shall I pretend that beauty will care for itself and that gardens shall tend themselves. My hands do not fly with careless speed, but rather move delicately along the fencerow, plucking weeds by their base and considering them before discarding them; they are made to resemble things of beauty, and they flower regularly, but they are not what God has intended to be in this place. For me to encourage them would be as careless as those others who choose other than the beauty God has planted. I once was foolish, but now recognize the errors in my ways. My heart is glad to cast out these invaders, to run my gloved hands along the now-smooth service near the fence. It is not a long surface, and much more labor awaits, but it begins to resemble what it once was, and for this brief glimpse into innocence, into holiness, away from the chaos of sin, I thank my blessed Maker.
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