Constant gardener

“Might I,” quavered Mary, might I have a bit of earth?... To plant seeds in–to make things grow–to see them come alive,” Mary faltered...

“Do you–care about gardens so much,” he said slowly....  “A bit of earth,” he said to himself, and Mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind.

“You can have as much earth as you want,” he said. “You remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, “take it, child, and make it come alive.”

“May I take it from anywhere–if it’s not wanted?”

In my growing-up years, Dad was the gardener in our family and there was always a rhythm to the seasons... in late fall bulbs of tulips-, crocuses-, daffodils-to-be planted and covered with wire mesh to protect from the scavenging black, gray, brown squirrels... a chilly early Saturday morning spring trip to the Eastern Market, a place of color and life in a drab downtown of boarded up houses-once-homes... countering offers and prices as any true Scotsman, yet only considering purchase of those buds with promise... flats of white impatiens to line the front-yard bushes, colored pink and peach and purple for the back-yard gardens, on the driveway for a respite before finding their seasonal home in the earth... 

And a Saturday a week later, kneeling in dirt and digging and planting these flowers in rows and clumps, one and another and another…   Dad was the planter and us girls - my mom, my sister, and I - the tend-ers, the waterers-between-summer-showers sent

by the Father who truly knows and gives and is Life. 

 

In summers of sunshine, the impatiens would nearly hide the stone bird bath, towering flowers and thriving to midwest eyes not having yet seen the growing season of southern blooms.  Not just impatiens but snapdragons, coneflowers, black-eyed-susans, hostas, tiger lilies, petunias, roses, marigolds, hydrangeas, geraniums, gerbera daises... with a basket and a pair of scissors I would gather them in the morning and bring the life of the outdoors in, drawn to the still-so-much-that-goes-so-right-and-beauty-abounds in this world.

And so now having a home of my own, I desired as the girl in a favorite childhood novel to have a bit of earth, to make things grow, to see them come alive in porch-garden earth, contained in ceramic pots with only so much depth but life-giving earth nonetheless.  I planted fall-loving flowers, colorful mums and pansies, and in the lonely leftover pot a dear friend gave me one of her uprooted hostas to surround with soil anew.  "Plant it in dirt, and it will grow in season," she said, "and if not, we'll try another next year."

The leaves of the hosta already yellow-splotchy, brown-tinged, barely-green, and I doubted but planted.  I even tended at the beginning, but the leaves all-yellowed and brown-encroaching and brittling showed not much sign of life-promise.  Mild southern winter months passed, and I watered contained parcels of shallow earth faithfully… more faithfully though those which displayed life clearly with greenery and bloom.  Spring came, and I thought it was as I had always thought it to be and that not daring hoping was right and leaves brown and brittle and seldom-watered but to drain the watering can were remnants of life that was and is no longer. 

And then, in a morning I had in mind to uproot and cast aside, there was life.

Green leaves among the brown, roots deep enough in shallow earth, watered enough to spring forth shoots, to unfurl life from death, color from drab, and there was a picture of God's grace who is the Constant Gardener, who sees the roots deeply planted, who tends more faithfully than I, who roots and establishes in love, who compels us to grasp

how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ

...who takes us from anywhere, even when we feel as earth unwanted.



As if not enough, there was one more gift.  In fall’s beginning a sprouting of leaves smaller, none quite as fresh, innocent, newly spring green, moreso a picture of wornness and restoration, brokenness and redemption than merely innocence, new life giving life as God has made us competent as ministers of a new covenant, not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.

He is the Constant Gardener, who in my life-seasons of spring-green leaves and brittle-brown leaves and yellowing leaves alike knows my thirst, knows my need, plants in life-giving earth, and tends with water without cost from the spring of the water of life.

Give me life, in the rocky mountain cleft, on the hinds' feet heights, in You, always resting.

The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett; Thank someone for this, Andrew Peterson; Matthew 13:1-23, Ephesians 3:17-18, 2 Corinthians 3:6, Revelation 21:6, God

Waters still

"Still waters run deep" he said of this shy seventh grader,
my awkward-years principal.

These hazel eyes harboring swirling eddies of thoughts and feelings and perceptions know no other way to see Truth but as a reflection in a mirror.  Though these eyes know this truth they pretend to see faces, to know more than what has been given.  As Eve, I too would have chosen the tempting fruit of knowledge in the Garden, paving the pathway for Christ to descend into this world,

to change still water to wine,

to transform humanity at the most elemental of levels.

Thinking that I see, I speak too quickly, and then, only after speaking, remember to be still.

It happens earlier now and differently.  I was seven grades and mangled and he is seven years, perhaps his surface-journey stonier but in person and struggle neither one less worthy in the eyes of the Father.

Beneath the surface is his unsettledness with himself, with identity and security and worthiness.

These life-eddies serve a purpose, and I am reminded of a lesson should-have-been-learned from years of river canoeing: the waters still reveal depth and calmness; the waters swirling, encumbrance beneath.

Somewhere in his heart he knows the easier place to be is with Jesus but perhaps has yet to learn the beauty of Life in life, and this knowledge I have hard-learned and possess for the giving.  And so, as though the watery depths have divided to show ground to travel on for a moment together, to reveal the churning of the deep without surface-ripple distraction, the only words of importance spoken thus far in paragraphs of conversation.

"You are special," I say.

His glance turns downwards, holding back tears, the not-so-still water willed not to course down rosy cheeks and clenched jaw.  His mother fights not as valiantly and her eyes well, hands to face to catch unfallen tears.  I allow myself to feel just partly in this personal moment in professional place and dry eyes swirl.

"Be still and know that I am God," He says.

It is in this stillness I know Him more and invite Him to become more, in myself and in the other.

Even with the currents visible, mine and yours and ours together,

may my life be more of waters still, knowing.

1 Corinthians 13:12; Genesis 3; John 2:1-11, 14:6; Exodus 14:21-22; Psalm 46:10

Give words

Her laughter is all smiles, running is gliding.  Long hugs punctuated staccato by writhing arms.

Does she know?

That there is One who smiles over her, who hears her silent laughter, the smiles intended to be more.  That in the arrived and not-yet, she glides but that someday in the will-be she will run and not grow weary, walk and not be faint.  That His arms are strong for her, that His embrace is sure and true.

The child hoped-to-be older brother's caregiver, now a sister needing what her parents meant for her to become.

Does she know?

Her life, formed, knit together fearfully and wonderfully, a gift.

In her bright pink shirt, lime green purse of stuffed animals and bubblegum, I see my childhood favorites.  In her bangs trimmed by Mom, two weeks too long in the eyes, I see my childhood likeness.  In her longing to be understood, for the inside to be known and seen and heard, I see my grown-up self.  Her thoughts, her actions, trapped by what she has always known, lived with, lived in these eleven years.

Prayer whispered.  

Give her love.  Give her grace.  Give her joy.  Give her peace.

Those gifts that are only Yours to give most fully and truly.  Give me shadows of those things that are from You and in You and mysteriously, unfathomably in me for the giving.

Do I know?

These questions I ask I know to ask because they are also my own.  You hold in Your strong arms before I know I need, You see my stumbling run, You delight, You smile.  

My life as it is and has been and will be, a gift.

These two daughters, Your handiwork.

One in a chair with wheels, propelling herself out the door, away from the crowd of us all, well-intended, for her good.

But do we see her?

The other steps in path, squats on knees angry for the action to look in the eyes, to see, to say, "I see you.  You are delightful.  Will you come see me again?  And we can talk more?  And you can help me listen to what you are already saying, have been saying, have yet to say?" Arms reach, not far enough but clearly, for a hug.  One reaches, one leans in and circles, both blessed in the moment.  One thinks it is here and gone, but staccato arms reach again.  Lean in and circle a moment longer, a gift received and given, and this place in the world too is sacred.

Prayer again whispered.  Give me wisdom to give her words.

The crowd is there, still.

Do they know?

The smile, the run, the arms of the Father, waiting.

Zephaniah 3:17; Isaiah 40:31; Psalm 89:11-18; Luke 15:11-32; Just as I Am, Andrew Peterson

Peace of this place

Into the peace of these wild things,

Into the wild of this grace,

Into the grace of this blessing,

Speak in the peace of this place...

-Andrew Peterson, Counting Stars