For many years, this garden knew tiny bare feet running through black-eyed Susans, meandering vines, pincushion flower and petunias. It’s known children’s laughter as my little ones collected seeds from the 4 o’clocks and morning glories.
The paw prints of our beloved fur friends will be forever etched in the soil; all precious reminders of the love they gave and received, which lives on still.
The rich soil has produced summers full of home-grown bounty.
It’s forgiven me when I’ve given it only a glance and nothing more.
It has welcomed me on my broken days like a treasured friend. It’s absorbed my tears when I’ve jabbed angrily at the rocks and roots all clogging the path to new life and brighter days.
It’s been a great source of joy, an open canvass patiently waiting for splashes of color and light.
Today, it’s transformed yet once again. This time, it’s the unfamiliar tracks of a wheelchair that make a path through the gate.
Beginning, middle and the difficult chapters that draw it all to a close.
The breeze that blows now sings of a new song. One of peace. Contentment. Of true appreciation and reflection.
From the withered branch to rebirth, the garden is never without hope and promise.
Each. Precious. Season.
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: (Eccl. 3:1)