The weight of the world on my shoulders sometimes feels heavier than others. No matter. Each day, just like the day before, he takes my hand and invites me to walk with him. We head toward the garden; him eager, me tagging along just to make him happy. I don't want to disappoint him, this selfless man of mine.
We walk through the rows, and the soft soil. He talks, asking me about my day, telling me about his. I feel like being silent, ever thinking about the cares of the world, and so he carries the conversation. He points out the new growth, taking delight in his labor.
He is no farmer, but gardening is his passion. He lovingly tills the soil, plants the seeds. Faithfully he waters. And he waits. Patiently, he waits knowing full well that with time there will be a harvest.
He bends to pull a few weeds, and I bend, too. We work, side by side, him gently leading, peeling away the layers until I start to respond. And sure enough, just like the plants, I do. My shoulders feel lighter.
Soon, the pile of weeds lays in a heap. The light grows dim, and still we stay. We sink to our ankles because the rain has turned the soil muddy. He asks if I want to go back inside, but I don't. His gentle ways woo me, and it's easy to talk in the dark.
Finally, we can see no more, and he leads me to the faucet where he washes my feet, rinsing them in cool, clean water. He runs his hands over my arms and legs, shedding the water from them. The weight is gone.
He is no farmer, but gardening is his passion. I am his garden.
My beloved has gone down to his garden
to the beds of spices,
to graze in the gardens
and to gather lilies.
I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine;
he grazes among the lilies.
Song of Solomon 6:2-3 (ESV)