As Resurrection Sunday approached this year I contemplated a moment of resurrection in my own life…in my garden.
Of Shovels And Butterflies, A Garden Story
Hands shoved deep into my pockets, I walked with head down to hide the tears in my eyes. Who I was hiding them from, God…people? I don’t know? Even if someone drove by they couldn’t see my tear stained face.
Warm breezes of early summer drifted through my hair, mocking the chill in my heart. Brittle leaves, remnants of winter, crunched under my feet. Each and every crisp step echoed the brittleness of my heart.
Sheer will and determination kept my mouth shut. I knew life and death were in the power of the tongue. No need to pour fuel on the fire. The abundance of my heart was filled with dead leaves and I knew it.
Distracted for a moment by a fluttering movement in my peripheral vision, my thoughts drifted away to former days of hot sun, bare dirt, blistered hands and a barren garden.
A Memory
Moving enormous loads of dirt one shovel at a time into gigantic flower beds wasn’t my idea of fun and I intended to let it be known.
Irritation filling my voice, I muttered out loud t my husband, “Honey, don’t you think grass would have been easier? Why didn’t you rent some equipment to do this?”
In his usual down to earth attitude he replied, “Quit complaining. Hard work is good for you. It will be worth it in the end. Put your head down and forget about it. That’s what I do.”
I recognized his all too familiar, “I’m working now” tone of voice, prohibiting any more argument from me. The rest of my conversation would have to take place in my head.
“Good for you, good for you,” my thoughts clamored as my shovel dug into the dirt, clanging against exposed rock, vibrating my teeth. Enough was enough, yet to avoid conflict, I dug a little harder, a little deeper; taking my frustration out on the muddy, clammy dirt as the sun burnt a hole in my back.
Aching back, hours of sweat and painful blisters proved fruitful in the end, producing a barren rock laced potential. Maybe, just maybe. It would take a miracle. The hot Texas heat would declare such a need.
Duane’s job done, mine just beginning, I began the next stage in my seemingly hopeless endeavor and went to buy plants to the local nursery. Momentary delight erased memories of hard work as I touched, smelled and delighted in some of God’s lovely creations. Letting my hands slide across velvety leaves stirring up hidden scents, sending waves of pleasure into my senses; I caressed every exotic plant I could find.
“These are so beautiful, Lord, so delicate. What do you think? Should I get these?”
A resounding “No, pick something hardier, something more enduring” startled me out of euphoria and back to reality.
Remembering the hot arid days of past summers, I retreated reluctantly to a different area, rummaging through traditional, less exciting specimens. Forced by budget and the sheer mass quantity of beds, I purchased smaller plants than anticipated.
“Lord, these are hardier, but so tiny for the heat. There aren’t even any blooms; however, You’re the boss. Hope You know what You’re doing. You did have a garden once.”
Euphoria gone, I began the arduous task of planting scrawny, lackluster fledglings. Bone tired, task completed, I set the sprinklers, bade a speculative ado, unwilling to waste one more thought on my frail garden.
“Did I call it a garden, Lord? Well, as far as I am concerned it’s a tragedy waiting to happen. It’s up to You now. I’ve done all I can do with the little I had.”
Walking away I dreamed of what seemed like a hopeless cause resurrecting into a beautiful garden. Not likely.
Back To The Fluttering
The fluttering ultimately engulfed my distraction, forming a kaleidoscope of brilliance. My head once down cast rose slowly in absolute wonder. Swirling around me were hundreds of exotic winged creatures in every size and color. Velvet wings brushed my face, as if to dry my tears. Resurrection was everywhere.
“They look like wind dancers.” I exclaimed in rapturous joy; my tears forgotten.
Floating weightless, careless in the air they drew my attention to my once barren garden. I was so busy looking down, remunerating my many woes; I hadn’t even noticed the lush carpet of abundant flowers scintillating the air with intoxicating aromas. Lackluster fledglings bloomed exquisitely.
“You did this- just for me, Lord?”
Responding with gentleness, the Lord spoke to my awakened heart, “Yes, just to remind you, though once barren, I took what you had; transforming your life into a watered garden filled with winged abundance. After all, I am Resurrection…I am Truth…and I am Life.
Discarding dead leaves and forlorn tears, the abundance of my heart now free to speak, with thanksgiving, ignited passionate praise and the revelation; sometimes it takes a shovel to make wings.
This personal life experience is provided by Brenda Craig author of Carvings In His Palm and Whispering Grass & Singing Waters. W