She closed her eyes and imagined the dance of the garden: how the leaves might grow and bend and sweetly meander in the wind. She imagined them filled with such life that to stand back and take in the little garden bed might be like watching a plant orchestra of colors and textures that grow and blossom, and dictate a story they so long to tell. She saw them moving and growing and expanding before her eyes. Though upon opening her eyes, she saw her simple little flowers standing quite stoic in the mulch.
“What is the story the garden has to tell?” She wondered, spade in hand. Scribe always wondered about the stories, the secret ones, the hidden ones. She was a writer after all. She was charged by a great King to write a good many things. It was a strange sort of calling, she thought at times. Completely legit in the unseen realm, for that is what she wrote of. But rather nebulous in this one. For one often wondered if what she wrote of were merely quaint parables or details of some fantastical reality. She had been counseled by the King not to concern herself too much with respect to this question, but simply to write what came from being in His presence. She had yet to discover the purposes to all her scribing, but in the end, found most joy in just being with Him.
“I like it. It looks sort of British.” She thought tilting her head to one side. “As all my gardens should.” She smiled. “I miss those gardens.” She twirled her little spade in her hand as she admired the small garden bed now occupied by new lavender and tickseed, russian sage, aster, and mulch.
And then it hit her again. She lowered her head and let out a huge sigh.
“But it’s not what I should be doing. Planting a garden?!” She kicked the dirt a little. “All this time I’m wasting, Papa. I’m so sorry. I know I’m supposed to be scribing. And instead here I am, admiring this silly little garden!” She knew He was near. In fact, she knew He drew closer in moments like these.
She heard Him sigh next to her.
“It is a beautiful garden, I think.” He said with all aspects of cheeriness and kindness intertwined. She waited for His disappointment, but it would never come.
“I’m sorry Papa. I’m wasting your time.”
“Interesting. I wasn’t aware that I had time that you could waste.”
Scribe nodded. “Right. I’m wasting my time,” she turned to Him, “I’m still sorry. I just can’t seem to get on track.”
He nodded. He was hearing her out. He was giving her space. He knew how to do this fathering thing so well. And after He felt she was quite done, He began.
“If you are under the impression that I am disappointed, Scribe, you needn’t be. I would prefer you not be disappointed either. The garden is very beautiful.”
She looked at Him quizzically. Had He heard anything she said? Surely He knew this had nothing to do with a garden. “Papa, I have wasted my time, you see? I should have been writing, not planting. I know that time is maybe not a big concern for you, but it is rather a limited resource where I come from..or at least, where I live right now.”
Papa took the spade from Scribe’s hand and approached the garden. He bent down to look at the flowers and smile at the visiting butterflies. He looked down at the spade and simply patted the mulch and dirt lovingly with his hand. He breathed deep. There was something very beautiful about this garden to Him, Scribe thought it was simply His fatherly love appreciating the haphazard creative attempts of a dear daughter. But his countenance told her there was something deeper going on, for He looked upon the buds and blooms with such adoration.
“You are my Scribe and you are my daughter,” He turned back to her with a refreshing smile, “called to write great things…stories of redemption and of love and of revelation. It amuses me sometimes, little Scribe, how much you take after me. For, you see, the greatest story I know also began with a garden.”
Scribe stared into the face of the great Author as everything became clear.
“There is value in beginning with a planting…beginning with something that is well rooted. And might I add, dear Scribe, not all great stories are written with ink and paper…some great stories are simply lived. Might I counsel you then, beloved to live a little and write a little, and let both speak forth the stories you so long to tell.” Papa rose from the side of the garden and approached Scribe. He offered the spade to her. Scribe smiled, reaching out to take it.
Papa grinned, “It really is a beautiful garden, Scribe, and a lovely story.”
Copyright 2010. Sara Rust. All Rights Reserved.