The Garden
Thursday September 13 2007

The cold damp soil chilled my warm hands. The earth had not yet been warmed by the loving rays of the sin. Mist enshrouded my vision, the stinging of my hands from wounds the garden had inflicted on me the day before, felt caring from seeing what the garden would be. Deep plowed my shovel into the gardens hard heart and soul. I could hear it crying out to me, “Why are you so cruel?”
... I made no reply.

As I softened the soil, thoroughly breaking up the hardened clods in my hands, the weeds then pulled easily and I tossed them off to the side to be burnt. The garden had no choice in what I considered weeds. The decomposing weeds that had died in seasons past would no longer hinder my garden anymore but would be a blessing to it. So I left them to nourish the soil. The garden cried out, “Now that you've taken from me the only life I had, take the dead weeds too!”
... I made no reply.

I was the God of my garden.
Like the morning mist, my vision cleared. I saw I was His garden. His work in me was only the caring on his loving hands that I had wounded the day before
In the mist…
And in its clearing…
He made His reply.

Copyright 2007 James Wood

For more writings by James Wood:
http://www.xomba.com/the_surrendered_candle_by_james_wood

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