I cut a hole in my garden gloves
accidentally. It's what happens when you deadhead roses in the dark. Luckily my
finger wasn't in the end of the glove when I cut it! I was anxious to trim the
roses because, well, because I knew that doing so would bring more roses. But
there's more to it than that.
My knowledge of how to care for
roses could be fit into a thimble. And why learn? Robert knew everything anyone
would want to know about roses. He knew how to fertilize, prune and carefully
cultivate them. ‘Our’ roses, for they became mine too after our marriage, did well
in the Arizona heat. The 17 plants in front of our home would produce fragrant
blossoms every year. The beautiful blossoms made me smile. I love roses, and I
love them without knowing a thing about how to grow them.
One Saturday in March, I asked Robert
to teach me about roses. He carefully explained each process, I hoped I would
remember all that he taught. Then Robert grew tired, so he went inside to rest,
and I worked in the backyard garden. I sat at the edge of the garden box,
forcing myself to plan the spring garden. I couldn’t concentrate, and soon my
mind wandered. Wearily, I finally allowed all the fears that had been swirling
about in my mind to assemble into a threatening cloud in my mind.
Robert’s cancer had returned. I knew it, he knew it.
We talked of it in distant phrases, but tried to keep hope alive. We had found
a new treatment that offered a tiny hope for a cure. Robert taught me to care
for the roses that day, but we hoped he would continue be the one to take care
of them, as always. I looked up. Dark clouds had gathered overhead, matching my
mood. I began to pray. I told the Lord about my sadness while I worked. I
wanted to know “What if…?” As I was whining to the Lord, I noticed that some of
the tomato plants hadn't dried up and even had blossoms and fruit on them (this
is a bit surprising, I'm not an expert gardener by any means), so I decided to
leave the tomatoes in and see what would happen. I also noticed that the broccoli
had gone to seed and wondered if I should try to glean the seeds and if I did
that, would they actually grow? And all of these thoughts were included in my
prayer; I decided I really needed God’s help with everything, even the garden.
Then I felt my mind being led, and I recalled the
metaphor of The Gardener. I remembered similarities between this garden,
pruning, weeding, pulling out the dead and withered plants; and the garden in
my heart. That garden was beginning to wither too. What would the Lord do for
me, I asked? What would happen to Robert and I? And what about the garden at my
feet? I just wanted the garden to grow. I wanted my happy life to grow, too. I
wanted everything to grow with a minimal amount of work and pain and struggle.
I had no sooner thought or prayed that, when the thought was impressed upon my
mind: "Your garden will be successful. Yes, it will require some work from
you, but you will find peace and comfort here and when you see the beauty of
it, you will be reminded how much I love you." Peace wrapped around my heart
like a warm blanket. I recognized this tender mercy. Tears sprung to my eyes as
I was reminded of God's great love for me.
I happily went to work, preparing the garden. I pulled
the dried dead plants from the earth, and raked the soil so it was smooth and
ready for new seed. I moved a reclining chair into the garden area. I hoped I
wouldn’t need to retreat to the garden, but I happily prepared so that I could
find peace there if I needed it.
A few weeks later the garden had been planted and
was doing well. Every time I watered it, I remembered my experience. This
remembering was good, because Robert was in the hospital again. He had undergone
eleven hours of surgery in the hopes that all of his cancer could be removed.
But it was not to be; there was more cancer than could be seen on any scan. Robert
was going to die very soon. The surgeon wept as he told me, “He will probably
just waste away.” I thought of the dry and withered plants in the garden and
cried too. Two days later, while Robert was still recovering, infection tried
to invade, and he was taken back to ICU. In the late, late hours of an endless
day, I trudged to my car in the hospital parking lot. I needed to return home
and sleep. Robert was to undergo yet another procedure very early the next
morning. I slept for what seemed like an instant, and awoke in the dim light of
dawn, to return to the hospital. I wanted to give Robert a kiss before they
wheeled him down the long hallway once again. As I began to back out of our
driveway, something unusual caught my eye. Roses. And not just a few roses,
there were literally hundreds of them. The rose bed in front of the house had
erupted into a fragrant explosion of colorful blooms. I stopped, trying to take
it all in, remembering the day we spent together right there in that place. And
then the words returned to my mind, "When you see the beauty of it, you
will be reminded how much I love you."
And that is how I came to be in
the garden after dark, deadheading the roses. The peace I received that morning
was wonderful. I wanted, no, I needed more. I understood in a way I never had
before, how my garden is my life; there will be withered plants, there will be
thorns and noxious weeds, but after all of my meager, pleading and prayerful
efforts, there will be roses. Evidence of God’s great love for me.
"Every falling tear is always understood; Life is hard, but God is good."
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