I am so thankful for redemption. Without it, I would have no hope. I didn’t have to be called back to this garden; I could easily have spent my days wandering along the path toward oblivion, mindless of the beauty here, forgetting that what has been created in this garden will last beyond the hands that tend to it now. I could easily have been written off for lost, the beauty within this place removed and passed off to another, more worthy garden. Surely there are others where the rows are immaculate and the roses freshly pruned.
But the beauty within called me back, summoned me once more to the garden of delight. I cannot say why, but whatever life beats within my chest has found new hope, new life in the oldest hope of all: the Lord my creator. No matter how far my path wanders in the future, I will never forget the path back to this place, as though some beacon within is inexorably tied to the center of this garden.
I have spent enough of today wandering and wondering without toiling in this place. Much work remains to be done, and with joy in my heart I flex my fingers and begin to hum a hymn of praise; it has no words or rhythm, it merely goes forth from my lips with no planning or pattern, rising to the heavens as a humble offering of thanks, for God has maintained my life and my being—my Lord sits enthroned forever, and my garden will be a praise offering to him, my toils here in this place a sign of the gratitude within my heart.
Today is a day for the path. I begin at the gate and slowly fold down onto my hands and knees. It is not an easy position, but my humming does not cease, for even in the resistance of my body I find myself rejoicing in my deliverance. My hands begin to creep along the path, far more nimble than my stiff body, plucking weeds by the stem and yanking them forth, offering my opinion upon them and flinging them fiercely over the fence. My eyes land upon the eyesore of my fence once or twice, but that can wait for another day.
Until then my hands will lead me down this path, overgrown but ready to burst forth so that it may serve its purpose: to lead me towards the beauty, towards the meaning, directly into the presence of the purpose of this place. It exists so that I might stride with thanksgiving upon my heart directly into the center of this garden and come to worship the One who has made it. Remembering that, and continuing to hum, I continue to pluck the weeds, each one leaving a tiny scar upon the surface of the path, a reminder of what once was but is no more. They make no sound as they soar high above the fence, for a brief moment framed before the perfect sky, then plunging noiselessly to perish beyond the sanctuary of this place. They are no more, and I am somewhat closer.
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