Psalm 25

Psalm 25

My feet make a way through the meadow. I trail along, wildflowers reaching for my legs before falling away, left behind to revel in the sunshine as I lament my brief passing. I wish to stop and enjoy each one, but my feet carry me forward, and I am grateful for it.
I could spend my life cavorting in the meadow, trying vainly to treasure each flower, gazing upon its beauty and promising to remember it until the next comes along, stealing my attention and holding my attention for a spell. I would spend my life twirling in the sun in the presence of beauty. Not bad, but not good, either.

For no work would get done on the garden. The weeds would grow wild and free, far from my pruning shears. I would be intoxicated by the beauty, but there would be no discipline to accompany my amorous ways. I would be in love with beauty, rather than devoting my time to the one who has created the beauty.
Somehow my feet have gathered this and carry me home, to the true seat of my soul, not far from plentiful distractions, but near enough to my task that I am reminded of my labors. As I pass through the meadows, I implore God to cover over the paths of my youth, the destroyers of my innocence. I beg God to close that gap between the trees in the forest, where I would slither through to partake in shadowy revelry. I pray that trees might collapse and build some impenetrable wall that might never release that history to the world. Might the path my feet carry me upon now cover over those misdeeds?

My garden appears, and the fading paint reminds me of so many sins. So much time away, attention tuned to wildflowers, to mushrooms growing in decay, to every alluring object that promised fulfillment and delivered none. The list is lengthy, but I draw nearer to the garden and I see my weedeater, lying idle, covered in stains from my recent work, and I draw myself upright. I know my broken past, but I know my strong Savior better.

He is mighty to save, quick to love, and free with his mercy. He who shatters the proud with his rod sweeps up the pieces with his other hand and has the Spirit guide us as we re-assemble them, not in the same pattern but in new ways, watching in awe as our hands create something more beauty than we believed we were capable of. It is the Spirit’s leading that guides my feet to my garden, and God’s grace that gives my hands, my will, the strength they need to toil in this place rather than chase wildflowers all day. My hope is in the Lord, who is mighty to save, my strong deliverer in the midst of the storm. What a God we have!