In order for my salvia to take root and thrive,
the soil must be tended.
It must be tilled,
fertilized.
I must prepare.
I must dig deep into the soil of my soul,
I must not be afraid to do the hard work and get dirty,
because it is from this place that growth happens.
Formation occurs.
Shape takes form.
She came tumbling over.
"Wat yo doin'? Yo planting flowers? Oooohhhh--let me help!"
Her first-grade body jumped right in exploring the tools, digging deep.
"I know how to use a shovel. I saw it once in a movie."
So we dug.
Together.
City girl.
With the Menno.
In the dirt, hands now the same color, we plunged deep.
Reaching deep and loosening,
planting and spreading,
we created something beautiful.
But it was more so that this.
For as new beds were forged,
in the midst, the Gardener was cultivating me.
For in the process of working my hard clay dirt,
the rocks and weeds blocking me from receiving and offering
love,
generosity,
and thanksgiving,
were being thinned.
For here working by my side was Joy.
And the sticks and stones
of my Pharisaic grumble mellowed,
because she illuminated my own hypocrisy by her simple honesty.
Perhaps I needed Tutti's drop-by visit more than she did,
to unearth
and revive my dry bones,
tired bones,
thinned bones,
with the wonder,
the miracle,
the mystery of Possibility.
As the sun sank and goodbyes rang into the night,
I stood, cascading water over our garden.
Praying with face wet that Rain would fall upon me,
watering the places within that had grown dry,
crusty,
hostile,
making me pliable
and capable
for nurturing
new life.
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The Lord will guide you continually,
and satisfy your needs in parched places,
and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters never fail.
~Isaiah 58:11
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