The Gardener walks along the path—his destination in mind.
The way is familiar and the path is worn having been traveled many times before.
He turns down a smaller trail.
A few steps further and he arrives.
The entrance is tucked amidst the trees, and he reaches for the gate.
The gate is his design, as is all that lies within.
His hand traces the wrought iron pattern known to him so well, intertwined lines and images, a distinctive invitation to enter.
There is tenderness and knowledge in his touch,
a love borne of ownership and sacrifice offered to bring forth life and beauty.
Gentle strength lies in those scarred and calloused hands—they tell a story of creating, tending, and nurturing.
He remembers the day he and his Father designed this gate and this garden.
His heart tied to the life within this enclosure,
his life poured into the soul of this place, and his life expressed through this garden.
Lifting the latch the gate swings open, he is needed here today.
The seasons are shifting at his command.
The fallow season of darkness, cold, and ice has loosened its grip.
The air warms to a cool breeze and the ground begins to thaw.
Early spring rains saturate the ground even as tears nourish a grieving heart.
Slowly he enters and breathes deeply, inhaling the mingled scents.
He follows the small stone paths, his gaze taking in every detail.
Bits of green struggle to make their grand entrance through the dirt.
He stoops to clear away dead leaves from pale green shoots.
New life awaits the sun’s invitation to unfurl and turn skyward.
The Gardener considers the work still to be done…
all will be completed in his time, but today he tends a salient need.
You, Lord, turn your eyes toward the center of the garden.
Your gaze comes to rest on the heart of this place, the heart of me.
You walk towards the stone wall by the old gnarly tree,
Pausing… you sit along its edge and your fingers skim the surface of the water,
muddied and murky, the spring no longer runs clear.
You stretch and reach down deep, scooping out mud, leaves, and twigs obstructing the spring,
droplets of water drip down your arms as tears flow down a woman’s face,
scarred hands gently free the heart of the little spring to flow pure and clean.
He delights in the garden, she belongs to him.
She is beautiful—she is responsive to his touch.
She knows she is his, she knows she was created for him.
The Gardener is still at work—life will grow, persist and flourish.
There is the small bed in the west corner,
fragile plants need care for they were weakened by the winter months.
There are empty spaces to dig, till, and prepare planting.
There is the fruit bearing tree on the north side,
dead branches must be pruned to increase capacity at harvest.
Yet she is thriving and glowing with the beauty that tells only of her Creator.
She is alive with his presence, she is his workmanship. Philippians 1:6, Ephesians 2:10
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