Let me bring you to a place I go in my head. It was once a private sanctuary, a secret garden to which only I had the key. Now, I am inviting you into it because marvelous and spectacular things happen in this garden. Quiet and subtle, but spectacular none-the-less. It is, as I said, my secret garden.
Now if you're picturing any ordinary garden which is neatly contained and aptly kept between the confines of some well built wall, stop. I have little use for gardens such as those. They lack fluidity, movement... growth. In fact, such civility defiles the nature of a garden. My garden is a little more chaotic but we'll just call it... wild.
The reason I want to take you to this garden of mine is because this is where the Lord comes to me, as is. This is where I grow. Where the conditions of my garden reflect my own heart. To be honest, this is not just a garden I am showing you but my inner being.
If this were a true garden, I would have to describe the entrance gate which leads to some beautiful terrace which overlooks my beautiful flora but, as mentioned, this is no ordinary garden. To be honest, I'm not sure there is a gate or even an entrance. Instead we will go to the center. To one singular cherry tree and I will invite you to sit. A well used wooden swing hangs from one of the tree's branches, it sways slightly with the movement of the tree, lending the illusion of growth to the swing.
I have spent many years on that swing, contemplating life. In this ethereal garden, time seems to stand still, the only notion of it passing was with the seasons as I watched, too slow to gather a measurable thought. I have sat through dark and foggy days when one can hardly make out the tree in the dreary mist. I have sat through blizzards in which the world seemed to freeze around me, preserved in their crystal white tomb. I have sat staring at perfectly round clouds as they float through that clear blue sky. I have watched the cherry tree grow, bud, blossom, and die only to do it again. In some ways, it has been my traveling companion. The one safe place in a universe of uncertainty.
In this inner sanctuary, I survived. No one could reach me under that beautiful cherry tree. No one and nothing could hurt me. It was here that I could weather abuse, here that I could survive disappointment and pain. This quiet site was the dwelling place of my soul, a place where I was protected.
On one of those sullen gray days, when time seems to be halted, not even passing with the falling of heavy tear drops from the gaping wound of heaven's clouds, I met the gardener. How he found his way into my garden, I haven't even the slightest whim. His hands were gloved, ready for work and he carried with him a wooden ladder and a pair of garden shears. His overalls were stained in the knees with grass and dirt, they were fraying at the seems like any well-worn jeans should be. His soft gray hair swept tidily across his forehead, short but not entirely tame. Wrinkles, set deep, told the story of eyes of mirth and an always ready smile and yet there was great sadness too. Emanating within his countenance was a deep grief, unspoken but not unheard. From where I was sitting in my swing, he seemed of average height and build. In fact, the only un-ordinary thing about him was that he was barefoot. Grass and dirt squelched between his toes, just as it did mine. So few appreciate the sensation that upon seeing it, I gaped. All question of how he came to be in my secret sanctuary vanished at the sight of his toes furling in the dirt.
"Excuse me, dear," he murmured in a soft unperturbed voice. Walking past me, he propped his ladder against the tree's trunk and climbed to the lowest branch. I watched him as he shimmied across the branch, amazed by the flexibility of this old man. Bringing his shears to the ends of the sprouts, the man began to work quickly snipping at them. I watched in horror as my beautiful blossoms fell to the ground, one by one.
"Stop!" I cried out. "What are you doing to my beautiful tree?" In the inner most part of my heart I felt betrayal. How could a barefoot walking man not appreciate the beauty of these blossoms? How could he snip them off so readily? I began to gather the snipped buds into my arms, tears cascading down my cheeks. I had to put them back! I could save them if I could put them back!
The treacherous man was descending on that awful ladder of his. Pivoting on his bare sole, the man knelt down before me. Looking me gently in the eyes, he whispered "It hurts me too, dear." Placing his gloves in his back pocket, he gently touched my arms which cradled the dying buds. His hands were soft and warm, his callouses adding a tender roughness to them. "Look here," he spoke softly as he plucked one of the blossoms from my arms, "if you open these buds, there is death inside." Peeling back soft pink petals, he revealed a blackened and withered anther. I stared in shock. How had he known? Were all of the blossoms sick? Smiling sympathetically, the man began to explain, "these blossoms are ill. If they aren't pruned now, they will infect the rest of the tree. It isn't a pleasant task. Each one of these blossoms had a purpose. Each had potential. But it is my job to maintain this tree. Even when it looks like I am desecrating beauty. Do you understand?"
The man looked at me, his gaze searching. He wasn't asking out of polite obligation, he truly yearned for me to understand. Unable to look any longer into his kind eyes, I looked down at the buds in my arms. I had been so desperate to re-attach them before but now they looked ill. Their pink was a pale attempt and each seem withered at the end, furling in on itself a sickly brown color. Looking back at the man, I nodded solemnly and let the blossoms slip from my arms. The man smiled softly, in an understanding way. He knew that I had given far more than my permission in that moment. I had given my inner most being over into his care. As the tears began to run, he gently brushed my cheek, catching my tears as they fell. "That's my girl," he murmured gently before embracing my small body in his strong arms.
From that day on, I was never alone in the garden. The gardener always invited me to accompany him, teaching me how to prune ill trees, to pluck nasty weeds, and to nurture gently a growing seed. We cry often, aching over the process but we laugh more, enjoying each others company. We walk together, barefooted, simply enjoying the teasing tickle of grass between our toes.
Where does the Lord meet you? He shows up for each of us. Greeting us, regardless of our culture, religion, or sexuality. He holds no bias, He knows no hatred. He comes to us full of love and compassion. Have you met Him yet?
"Excuse me, dear," he murmured in a soft unperturbed voice. Walking past me, he propped his ladder against the tree's trunk and climbed to the lowest branch. I watched him as he shimmied across the branch, amazed by the flexibility of this old man. Bringing his shears to the ends of the sprouts, the man began to work quickly snipping at them. I watched in horror as my beautiful blossoms fell to the ground, one by one.
"Stop!" I cried out. "What are you doing to my beautiful tree?" In the inner most part of my heart I felt betrayal. How could a barefoot walking man not appreciate the beauty of these blossoms? How could he snip them off so readily? I began to gather the snipped buds into my arms, tears cascading down my cheeks. I had to put them back! I could save them if I could put them back!
The treacherous man was descending on that awful ladder of his. Pivoting on his bare sole, the man knelt down before me. Looking me gently in the eyes, he whispered "It hurts me too, dear." Placing his gloves in his back pocket, he gently touched my arms which cradled the dying buds. His hands were soft and warm, his callouses adding a tender roughness to them. "Look here," he spoke softly as he plucked one of the blossoms from my arms, "if you open these buds, there is death inside." Peeling back soft pink petals, he revealed a blackened and withered anther. I stared in shock. How had he known? Were all of the blossoms sick? Smiling sympathetically, the man began to explain, "these blossoms are ill. If they aren't pruned now, they will infect the rest of the tree. It isn't a pleasant task. Each one of these blossoms had a purpose. Each had potential. But it is my job to maintain this tree. Even when it looks like I am desecrating beauty. Do you understand?"
The man looked at me, his gaze searching. He wasn't asking out of polite obligation, he truly yearned for me to understand. Unable to look any longer into his kind eyes, I looked down at the buds in my arms. I had been so desperate to re-attach them before but now they looked ill. Their pink was a pale attempt and each seem withered at the end, furling in on itself a sickly brown color. Looking back at the man, I nodded solemnly and let the blossoms slip from my arms. The man smiled softly, in an understanding way. He knew that I had given far more than my permission in that moment. I had given my inner most being over into his care. As the tears began to run, he gently brushed my cheek, catching my tears as they fell. "That's my girl," he murmured gently before embracing my small body in his strong arms.
From that day on, I was never alone in the garden. The gardener always invited me to accompany him, teaching me how to prune ill trees, to pluck nasty weeds, and to nurture gently a growing seed. We cry often, aching over the process but we laugh more, enjoying each others company. We walk together, barefooted, simply enjoying the teasing tickle of grass between our toes.
Where does the Lord meet you? He shows up for each of us. Greeting us, regardless of our culture, religion, or sexuality. He holds no bias, He knows no hatred. He comes to us full of love and compassion. Have you met Him yet?
No comments:
Post a Comment