Monday, June 4, 2007

My dear God,

The sound of the waterfall was music to my ears. It had been two years since I had cleaned out the pond, plugged in the mechanism for the waterfall. Today, I closed my eyes, listened as the water flowed out over the rocks.

Once I won my battle with the thistles, I vowed to spend more time working in other areas of my garden. After edging, trimming, cleaning, spraying, weeding, I turned to the pond. Sludge, oh the smell of sludge. I had let the pond evaporate so I could more easily pull out some of the water lilies. But sludge is all that had remained. Although water lilies are beautiful their massive root system can take over the entire pond until nothing else exists. I pulled and snapped, ripped and tore at the roots, sludge flinging, mostly on me. It was yucky but it was dawn. I was in my element in the early morning hours.

I cleaned and cleaned, not nearly enough. But then I filled the pond. And plugged it in. The sound. The sound of heaven. I remember the times I sat in the garden, waiting for God to speak to me. Waiting, listening, anticipating. Every time the garden was a tranquil environment, bringing me to peace with myself as I considered the living water I was receiving.

I remember Judy sitting on the bench near the pond. A gentle, beautiful woman in her 40's, Judy was dying with melanoma cancer. She found such comfort in this tiny piece of heaven. Tears filled her eyes as she faced her upcoming death, yet, she experienced peace as she allowed God to reach her soul in the garden.

I remember Barbara. She so wanted to attend my Open Garden, a dedication ceremony complete with "Holy Spirit" bubbles. She and her husband were the last to arrive. He had to park in the yard up by the house so he could help her to the back yard. Barbara too had cancer. Dave had to practically carry her to a chair. She could only speak in whispers.

There's something about my contemplative garden, so much so that a woman would spend the morning of her wedding in my garden. Others have come for various reasons. I counselled a woman on the bench one day. She was beside herself and I invited her to sit with me in the garden while we talked. When she left, she was more at peace with herself and her situation.

I once sat in my garden for six hours, a challenge by God the night before during a fervent time of prayer. One line came to me, one simple line. "It's time to get over it, move on, and celebrate the good news which is Jesus Christ." That was it, one line but it literally turned our church around. We moved to sharing good news all the time. Joy took over our church.

The mystical nature of my garden is one that I cannot explain. I just know you reside here. You walk and talk here. You speak and listen here. Your presence is revealed here. I share my garden because it is not my own. I followed a not-so-gentle urging. The garden is yours, I am simply its caregiver.

Perhaps my garden is a little like the garden of Eden, an environment meant to give shape to lives hungry for the secrets of creation. Perchance it is designed to draw people back to the womb, that safe, warm wonderful place where all is well, all is held tenderly, where God rocks us back and forth, back and forth, a sacred rhythm in paradise known only to God.

Paradise is not a site, a location. It is the moment of connection with God. A garden is a paradise, a living revelation of God's mystery. Faith can grow in this garden. So can hope, peace, and joy. Love grows here, your love.

Great and Wondrous Gardener,
I'm planted in this garden.
My soul rests here,
is content here
in the garden.
I find mercy pouring out,
flowing over.
Grace grows here
and can be plucked
at any moment.
Faith is a frequent visitor
expressing herself
in so many ways.
Peace reverberates
as the breezes blow.
And joy,
she dances.

Love always, Andrea