When I was just a little baby girl, I had a deep love for the wildflowers that grew in my grandma’s garden. Grabbing our large woven baskets, my grandma and I would walk hand in hand out to pluck bundles, all the while singing, “I love you a bushel, and a peck, and a hug around the neck.”
For years, I sat on my grandma’s kitchen counter, marveling at the magic of her “flower potions”, more widely known as potpourri. A fragrance so sweet, and inviting would fill her already very homey abode, drawing in my little fingers to marvel, and inspect, the beautiful dried plants. Something deep in me fell in love with those wildflowers.
Now here I am, all the way across the world living in Thailand, and God’s reminding me of childhood dreams, and wonders, forgotten. He’s unwinding my heart, as a photographer unwinds film. Every little twinkling of my eye, every unheard thought, every time my heart skipped, or my stomach turned over in disappointment, he’s been there, and he’s captured it all, and treasured it deeply.
In the quiet, we’ve sat together, and marveled at the breathtaking beauty, and skill of his work. He’s asked me to revisit my childhood garden, and discover components of my heart that have gone unacknowledged. Hand in hand, we walk through the garden again, and bit by bit, he removes some of the weeds, so that his plants can bloom in their full splendor.
He’s been the very best Gardener, knowing when one of my “flowers” are actually a weed, and when one of my “weeds” are actually a flower. He’s patient with me, when I try to tend to the garden, and wind up violently chopping down bushes, and running rampage through carefully planted arrangements. His hands are steady, and intentional with the process, as he works.
Sometimes, I get frustrated with my garden. I fear that God might just give up after working so persistently, and intently to remove the silliest of thorns.
I try to take walks alone, covering things up, hiding deep parts of myself I know need plucked. I compare my flowers to those that I’ve seen in other gardens, and I refuse to let them spread their petals, and bring glory to the Gardener. I think I might puke just looking at all of the weeds that need removed, and messy bushes, and trees that need trimmed. I wind up curled in a ball, crying in the mud of my own mess, and God has to come pick me up, and kiss me with grace, once again.
Hand in hand, we walk through his Son’s garden, and marvel at the utter brilliance of it all; rich soils, brightly colored flowers and fruits, glistening streams, trees that tower higher, and higher, all the way to heaven, roots that dive deeper, into the great underlying caverns of the soul. Everything I hope my garden to be, His already is.
I like those walks the best.
When I’m shameful of the weeds, God places his hand on my ground, and sings a thankful song, then he places his hand on my scarred, patched up heart, and sings that very same song (Please read “Cold Tangerines” by Shauna Neiquist). I look back at where it all started, and I see Him planting some of his very first seeds as my grandma and I plucked wildflowers in the garden of my childhood. He was singing thankful songs then, and he’s singing thankful songs now.
I’d like to believe that the first flower was a wildflower.
