It was a flower garden begun more for reasons of practicality than for any great aesthetic design. The two poplar trees were too close for a mower to pass between them, so it was determined that fashioning a flower bed in the awkward space between the trees was the most pragmatic option. Because it was not in a highly visible area of the yard, the new flower garden-to-be did not receive immediate attention. In fact, it may have remained on the to-do list for some time if it were not for the young daughter. Her creative instincts saw the barren spot as a place to nourish life.
Under her care and attention, the bare, awkward space was gradually transformed. The unwieldy clay received a dressing of fertile soil; tiny seeds and promising bedding plants were nestled firmly in place. The daughter watered and weeded quite faithfully – the lack of one and the abundance of the other both served as ongoing menaces to her efforts. Creeping Jenny, marigolds, and pansies soon vibrated their colours in the swaying shadows of the guardian trees. The flower garden was not manicured or formally arranged in any gardener sort of way, but it was delightful in its youthful haphazardness.
A season passed. The garden’s colours faded into autumn brown and winter white. The short-lived annuals were not replaced the following spring; the creeping jenny struggled to find its place amongst the now unchecked grasses and weeds. The daughter had left home. The mother often contemplated the flower garden – thoughts of renewing it were pondered and then discarded. It was her daughter’s garden, and like her life, the garden would have to be tended by her alone. It pained the mother to see the succession of weeds flourish in the midst of that once-happy place; it pained her more to watch the succession of poor choices that increasingly entangled her daughter’s life.
A few years pass. The garden remains untended. The father and a younger brother regularly mow around it, but no one comments about the fact that of all the flower beds now adorning the park-like yard, this one alone remains untouched. Un-watered, un-weeded, and un-planted. The mother looks at it from time to time, but for her the garden has become too much of a metaphor for the loss of what once was. Sometimes it is easier and less disheartening not to think about it.
A new season begins. The garden is still untouched by human hands. The mother glances wistfully at it as she walks by on her way to tend another part of the yard. Something about it momentarily catches her eye. Against all odds, it is blooming - not the pansies or marigolds of its inaugural year, but hardy wild roses. The wind caresses the abundant pale pink blossoms, capturing the delicate sweet perfume and tossing it about with frolicking abandon. Suddenly the word beautiful seems completely inadequate.
Curiosity makes the mother crouch low to search for any remnant of her daughter’s touch. She smiles to see the green tendrils of creeping jenny quietly flourishing in the shady regions beneath the roses. The garden still has life. The metaphor has suddenly shifted and deepened. Like her daughter’s life, the garden is witness to the ability of the Master Gardner to sustain life. The thorns are ever-present on the blooming rose bushes, a poignant reminder that often life’s choices are not without painful consequences. But the blooms are also there – a visible witness to the Redeemer and His power to turn chaos and weeds into a reflection of His glory. And the creeping jenny is still there – a comforting reminder that the daughter who once was, is still a daughter. Still loved. Still longed for. Still there underneath all the trappings that have confused her identity.
The garden continues to remain untouched by human hands. It is a place best left to the only One who can truly redeem, restore, and sustain its life. It is beautiful because He makes it so. How like the grace of God.
