The Garden

Erda Estremera on Unsplash

I finally did it, I took out the stone. 

There was some nice landscaping around our house when we moved in (although, there is such a thing as too many hostas). Over the years, I've moved some flowers, weeded out others, and added new. The spot in front of our bay window had nice stone landscape edging with a clump of 3 small birch trees surrounded by hostas and another shrub. Eventually the trees rotted. This happened before Jon had purchased a chainsaw so Dad came over with his and helped us out. I was sad to lose the cover, but I remember seeing it as an opportunity to move some beautiful irises to the front and plant some daffodils. 

Now there was also this shrub.... I never did find out what it was. I could have tried, but I think I didn't bother because I never really cared for it. There were early spring blooms but by mid-summer it would get all straggly and die away. Regardless, I just left it mostly because I didn't know what else to do. 

I've left this little flower bed neglected for a couple of years now. Oh, these flowers still bloomed, the hostas expanded and that shrub, well, it did its shrub thing. But, last spring my daffodils took forever to bloom and they weren't nearly as plentiful. The same happened with the irises. I blamed it on that horrible WI winter we had but then the same thing has happened this spring. I have yet to see daffodils and they are some of the hardiest bulbs I know. 

Last week I pulled out the shrub. For the past few days I've worked on pulling out the stone landscape edging which had sunk into the ground and become uneven. I wanted a simple rectangle with simple lines and I wanted to keep my daffodils and irises while adding dahlias, which I've always longed to plant. 

Thing is, as I tried to work around the flowers, I realized it was going to be impossible without digging some if not all the bulbs out. Honestly, I hemmed and hawed with this project to begin with. I'm not usually a hem and haw-er I'm a dive right in-er and deal with whatever happens along the way. For some reason, I wasn't ready to deal with getting rid of/losing yet another thing. 

Every ounce of disappointment seem to drive that first dig of the shovel. But, then something happened. I had to fight and stomp just to break that shovel through the roots. And dang it all if this was the first time I realized how sorely neglected these flowers were. They were so compacted, the roots so tangled no wonder they were blooming poorly.

I've been in a long season of losing things. And just when it seemed there would be a bit of a reprieve, I'm losing more things in this weird time. I've been waiting for some epiphany, to feel on board with all the conversation about resting and coming out of this as better humans. Really, these past several weeks I've just been surviving. But truth be told, I've just been surviving since Dad was diagnosed with dementia. 

I stopped being a dive right in-er, I've neglected so many things. I have been choked by loss and heartbreak and the roots have just tangled and twisted me all up tight. I think in any other season, any other time, the effects of this pandemic would not have hit as hard, I think I would feel a bit stronger. But after years of loss and little daily heartbreaks, I think the cancellation of things, the ending of things just feels so heavy.

But here's what I have come to know through this little garden project. We must tend that which needs to grow. We don't tend, we don't grow. We must let go in order to make room for new growth. We don't let go, we don't grow. And we are not alone in this process. No doubt there as so many times of feeling abandoned and alone. I've felt it so much over these past few years watching Dad slip away from Alzheimer's. I felt it even last night as I started to dig. But we are not alone. As Christie Purifoy writes,

"Gardens are not as perfect as nature. They are not as grand or majestic. They reveal our all-too-human mistakes as readily as our accomplishments. But they are also more hospitable. Unlike a forest, they grow on a human scale. Gardens are a place of encounter with the God who draws near. In a garden, we find Christ who is our peace."

When I finished, I felt lighter. I let those roots spread out and breathe and I felt assurance that I'm not alone. We must not only tend to plants or home or family. We must tend to ourselves - the one we usually neglect the most. When we do, we feel a little lighter, breathe a little better.

And I felt hope. Hope that while I may not get blooms this summer, next spring might just burst forth with something even better. And He is meeting you, too in this time of isolation and loss and uncertainty. There is hope that while we may have to wait for a time, something will present itself that turns out to be better than it's been. 

God drew near in the Garden of Gethsemane. He was near as we slowly lost Dad to dementia. He is near now; He is our peace. May you find some time to tend and to rest and to have hope.