Let me show you my beautiful garden
Although it no longer belongs to me.
With all my toiling, sun up to sun down
My garden was not meant to be.
Little did I know of the seeds,
Seeds of deception and lies—
Until one day a stranger asked
“Why the despair in your eyes?”
“I’ve tried,” said I to this gentle man.
To water, to nourish,
the seeds which were given to me.
For fear of ridicule at what HE would behold,
I hesitated when HE said, “May I see?”
“I love gardens,” HE said,
“Where comes from the earth.”
The most beautiful of things!”
As I opened the gate and said “Come in.”
I thought I would see him cringe.
For row upon row, stood the harvest of my years.
Fear, distress, and worry, watered by my tears.
“Oh, look there.” HE said,
as he pointed to the corner of the field.
“What a beautiful bud, and a healthy plant.
What delightful fruit it will yield.”
“But,” I said. “It’s only one—so unlike the rest.
I have given it no time.
I didn’t think it worth my effort.
Neither did I think it mine.
Blown, perhaps, by some distant wind,
From where I knew not of.
Left to itself—it was its own—
With nothing for me to solve.
The others required all of me—
And I’ve given all that I know to give.
With nothing in return—no delight—
No reason for me to live.”
HE knelt beside me in the dirt.
As I crouched and poured out my tears.
From His eyes came the same.
As if HE knew my fears.
“What can I do dear Sir—kind man,
For these, my plants, my friends?
Do you have plants? Do you have a garden,
To which you must attend?”
HE said, “I thought you might need help.
That’s why I came along.
Yes, my child, I have many gardens
To which I belong.
They were given to me
By friends who knew my art
Of taking gardens just like yours
And giving a new start.”
“What will you do with mine?” said I.
“What give you in return?”
“The fruits of my labor.” He said,
“More seed, more beauty
than you could ever earn.”
“What are you saying dear man, kind Sir?
A garden is meant to grow?
What else can you tell me?
What more do I need to know?”
He sat with me then and told me the plans
His Father had given Him
For gardens that flourish, reflecting His care—
Knowing and touching each stem.
F. R. January 1993