Then the Lord God took the man and put him into the garden to cultivate it and to keep it.
(Genesis 1:15)
“In half an hour,” my husband says, “we should probably go home.” But I want to stay.
I’m just getting started. It’s not his fault. Truth is, I’ve taken two hours to shed daily weight from my shoulders, to feel it cascade off my body like an outer skin, to touch my soul. Chores, deadlines, fears, uncertainties, frustrations, they numb me to myself.
They must be put in their proper place, caged where they can blink at me but not speak, waiting until I open the door to let them out again. I have to move past them to find a place to write from -- that spot where I know what I think, how to hear my heart beat, what to pray. It takes time and attention.
I wasn’t sure where to go today to leave a distance between me and them. But the Botanical Garden was just around the corner and after a short drive, we were strolling under entrance gates, along woodland boardwalks, into walled gardens.
There I found a wooden bench, gray and soft from summer sun and winter rains. Radiating from it were brick paths and drifts of pansies in yellow, blue, and white. Behind it a soldiers’ row of daffodils lifted their yellow flags in attention. In front, a weeping cherry tree cascaded up and over us in a flurry of fluff, like a ballerina in pink tulle. Cardinals chattered and rustled in winter jasmine bushes spilling their lemony scent on light breezes. Beyond, by splashing fountains, beds of coral tulips beckoned.
Sun warming my back, I peeled off my shoes and socks, sat on the brick edging and stretched my legs along a shady path under a tree. I was hemmed in by water and fragrance and color and sky. It was almost as though I was back in my old garden where I dug deep into the joy of growing things, into wonder and earth and morning light.
There on that brick path by the pansies, I touched my longing and turned it over in my mind. I was made for a garden. Though sin has stained me, it cannot remove my original design.
“One day,” I murmured to my husband, “I hope to have a garden like this.”
One day you will. The thought interrupts me now, a hour later in this coffee shop at a round table with steaming cup and pen at hand. It nestles against me like a persistent child who won’t be hushed. One day you will, here with my ache still standing tall as a tulip waving merrily and solemnly at me, and I know what it means.
One day you will. Would God whisper a passing thought like this, between cups of coffee by a late afternoon window staring at me like a portal into another world?
I can choose. I can stop to ponder or push on to other tasks. Busy life calls. But this time, I turn to face it.
“Yes. Thank you, Father. It is good to be known.You have given us all good things to enjoy.” Faint, whispered under my breath, but it is a thing I say. I respond with heart open and unfinished.
Will I have a garden? I cannot be sure, and yet --
Even though I now sit somewhere between longing and fulfillment, and it throbs like a splinter in my flesh, I know I’m more alive. I have confessed. I have admitted my hunger, and I have trusted God to know and respond in time.
Have you ever had to trust God to respond to a longing which you could not satisfy?
I’m just getting started. It’s not his fault. Truth is, I’ve taken two hours to shed daily weight from my shoulders, to feel it cascade off my body like an outer skin, to touch my soul. Chores, deadlines, fears, uncertainties, frustrations, they numb me to myself.
They must be put in their proper place, caged where they can blink at me but not speak, waiting until I open the door to let them out again. I have to move past them to find a place to write from -- that spot where I know what I think, how to hear my heart beat, what to pray. It takes time and attention.
I wasn’t sure where to go today to leave a distance between me and them. But the Botanical Garden was just around the corner and after a short drive, we were strolling under entrance gates, along woodland boardwalks, into walled gardens.
There I found a wooden bench, gray and soft from summer sun and winter rains. Radiating from it were brick paths and drifts of pansies in yellow, blue, and white. Behind it a soldiers’ row of daffodils lifted their yellow flags in attention. In front, a weeping cherry tree cascaded up and over us in a flurry of fluff, like a ballerina in pink tulle. Cardinals chattered and rustled in winter jasmine bushes spilling their lemony scent on light breezes. Beyond, by splashing fountains, beds of coral tulips beckoned.
Sun warming my back, I peeled off my shoes and socks, sat on the brick edging and stretched my legs along a shady path under a tree. I was hemmed in by water and fragrance and color and sky. It was almost as though I was back in my old garden where I dug deep into the joy of growing things, into wonder and earth and morning light.
There on that brick path by the pansies, I touched my longing and turned it over in my mind. I was made for a garden. Though sin has stained me, it cannot remove my original design.
“One day,” I murmured to my husband, “I hope to have a garden like this.”
One day you will. The thought interrupts me now, a hour later in this coffee shop at a round table with steaming cup and pen at hand. It nestles against me like a persistent child who won’t be hushed. One day you will, here with my ache still standing tall as a tulip waving merrily and solemnly at me, and I know what it means.
One day you will. Would God whisper a passing thought like this, between cups of coffee by a late afternoon window staring at me like a portal into another world?
I can choose. I can stop to ponder or push on to other tasks. Busy life calls. But this time, I turn to face it.
“Yes. Thank you, Father. It is good to be known.You have given us all good things to enjoy.” Faint, whispered under my breath, but it is a thing I say. I respond with heart open and unfinished.
Will I have a garden? I cannot be sure, and yet --
Even though I now sit somewhere between longing and fulfillment, and it throbs like a splinter in my flesh, I know I’m more alive. I have confessed. I have admitted my hunger, and I have trusted God to know and respond in time.
Have you ever had to trust God to respond to a longing which you could not satisfy?
10 comments:
With our hearts moved by the thought of long term missions but plans on hold for now by family obligations I was touched by the Lord this morning as He reminded me of a word He spoke to my spirit years ago (before the thought of missions had been birthed)
He had whispered "I send you out, I bring you back"
What a loving God, reminding me that He is faithful to His Word. Today He added, "You will indeed be sent, bnot by man, but by Me"
Oh yes! :o) Everyday.
that place of rest ... trusting
A place of no fear, no worry, that is where I want to be...your garden sounds wonderful, I can feel the breeze from here. BTW, how did you make this blog link to your main blog? I love it, am thinking about doing it myself. Lori
I so long to visit the Holy Land with Kay Arthur. I know that I would be so overwhelmed I'd need to crawl everywhere. Just thinking about it makes me ache. Would He give me this longing and not satisfy it?
I wait.
Trusting with you for your garden.
Your words. Beautiful. I saw. I felt. I smelled.
Yes, thinking of that longing now -health and wholeness for one close to me...trusting God as I wait.
Your vivid description of the garden drew me in today...
My friends,
Thank you for sharing and for reading this with your hearts!
Oh my goodness, so many, MANY times, Cassandra. And lately, every day.
And I know I say this often, but you have such a beautiful, poetic way of writing. I find myself lingering over your descriptions (and I am hopeless where any type of gardening or flowers are concerned.) I know you will have your garden.
I completely understand your need for a garden because I have the same one. I've been waiting, and trusting, God to open the door to have a garden and a home for 18 years now. I know He will provide when we're ready. And yes He does whisper passing thoughts, I get them all the time. The one I get most often is, "Trust Me."
I'm there too, Cassandra, somewhere between longing and fulfillment.
Your writing stirs the deep places of the soul!
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