As my thoughts return to my own garden plot after visiting some of the most immaculate gardens I have ever seen, I am left me feeling small and vulnerable, unworthy of the beauty planted within. Those gardeners welcomed me, shared some of their story and all of their love with me; they told me tales of love that was more selfless than I had imagined a human could be. They told of hours spent carefully crafting the soil in their garden, of spending days, weeks and even months in the garden of a friend in need, neglecting their own garden and yet returning to find it more beautiful than ever. They did not spend time on the paths in the forest; the chaos that waited beyond the meadow held no sway in their hearts, for they had long ago seen that dragon slain and had no desire to resurrect it. Some of them knew the allure and told me how they fought back the temptation to venture into the shadowy depths of the heart’s wayward desires, but each told me of the fear and honor they had for the one who created the garden, who planted the beauty, who cared for the soul.
They knew how the weeds crept in, how the ugliness polluted this place when they chased after vapid cares, so they turned from the wicked, selfish ways of those who chased sensory pleasures, choosing instead to wear down their knees in order to try and create more glory for the beauty that was already blossoming in that place. They knew that the garden was beautiful because of someone else, and they knew their efforts would ensure that their gardens would not be swallowed up by the chaos; they would not disappear into the darkness, but rather would stand firm in the clearing, with a clear view of the sun and the nourishment it offers.
I stood in my garden. What did it say about me? To what greater truth did it testify? Does it reflect my heart’s desires, or am I simply another wanderer, content to chase pleasure in the hope of catching its fleeting glory? I wish for a garden that shall not be moved, for a protector to stand around this holy place, to dwell in this holy meadow and offer myself, my very being, for the glory of one who is far greater than I. To tend such beauty in the hopes of offering my humble life for the glory of God, surely that is the only eternal joy.
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