Out In The Garden

"Beauty surrounds us, but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it." 

~Rumi~

I hadn't planned on anything grand, it was a fleeting effort at best, a virgin attempt at gardening. My mother was a gardener, my brother grows flowers that speak lovely. My sister-in-law received the gift, so did my sister. When I tossed a few bulbs into an over-sized pot, whispered help, please, thank you, and gave my husband the job of master fertilizer, I waited semi-patiently for the unknown. Mostly.

I practiced talking to the plant, studied every inch of new growth as if constant vigilance and  one-sided conversation provided five-star health insurance for this novice experiment. In recent years back issues have forced me to work in the yard waist-level up. Our God is quite creative in helping the weak, and ever so gentle in the grumbling moments, tenderly rerouting the focus back toward the light, to the present, to the unspeakable beautiful.

A quote I read years ago still sits with me like an old friend who knows all your secrets, and this friend doesn't squirm and look around for an escape route once your soul is lying on the hot concrete.

Trust the unknown, it's the only thing that truly cares about you, it said. On that day when I plopped those bulbs into fresh nurturing soil, with weak trust muscles and eyes looking down instead of up, God had already began the wondrous work out in the garden. He really likes to help, and He is super good at surprises.

I think I would have liked Rumi. For one day recently in a breathless summer moment, I felt the thunderous roar of heaven clap happy under my feet as I stepped out into the garden. One of the blooms opened to its full glory, and the slight morning breeze brushed lightly across my cheeks. My gaze, it swept across the yard for full measure, taking in the splashes of color sitting pretty here and there and everywhere. I breathed it in, this fresh dose of delicious joy. You are a gardener.

A Showcase Of Grace

I have not been able to write much recently. My beloved Anne Lamott has trouble lately also, she said so on Facebook this morning. I feel a smidge better. Maybe my downsizing project has hijacked the words, holding them hostage until I actually finish the undertaking. Or perhaps it's the unbelievable, chaotic political climate, or back pain that just won't behave, or unending prayers for the critically injured and seriously ill loved ones and friends. Or time spent devouring deliciously good books. 

Since I tend to hear from God while writing, I walked around our yard today, searching for the words, aching for something new to say, anything to inspire, chew on or shake a fist at. Having settled into retirement this summer, nestling into the comfort of lack of schedules, much like easing into super-soft cozy sheets on a chilly winter night, I wandered around the garden, unhurried, observing.

It was outside, stepping around our patch of earth that I heard it deep down in my bones, down to the very roots of my inner most being. It's in the ordinary that we find the extraordinary. Inhaling a fragrant breath of thanksgiving, I unwound the green garden hose, watered the raspberries.

During my downsizing, I've seen our life unfurl before my eyes, like watching an elongated documentary, one that you would view over again a thousand times, just because. And in catching re-runs of our life in photographs, children's sports awards, vacation memories, old books, and more, I see with fresh vision how God uses the ordinary moments to showcase His extraordinary grace.

Oswald Chambers wrote: " Keep the thought that the mind of God is behind all things strong and growing. Not even the smallest detail of life happens unless God's will is behind it." I survey the garden once again on this quiet, ordinary day. The words will come when ready, our political climate will simmer down eventually, the prayers will continue for the hurting and the back pain might need to be given a kind name, like Barack, or Michelle. Invigorated hope trailed me as I walked back into the house.