It's a tiny little plot, like, really tiny, but it doesn't really matter because my hands are in dirt.
Picking out stones, weeds.
Turning the soil.
Thoughts of patterns of flowers - an abundance of possibilities, certain to be beautiful no matter what the final arrangement.
The trowel digs deep to make nests ready to take on the purposes of growth.
And then, in they go.
One by one. Little by little. Some with tickles of colour - that, gah, just hint to you that they are going to continue to speak His glory - more and more, deeper and deeper in hues, as the summer will pass. Catching eyes, reminding us to slow: to consider, perhaps even with a smile.
Watering. Slowly and deliberately - to nourish and not to overwhelm.
I am thankful:
- for the little garden.
- for bright pink trowel and rake, and knee pads.
- for slow walks down market aisles, touching petals.
- for words that make us laugh.
- for neighbours, who like snapdragons and surprise chats through windows.
- for a Lord who takes on the soil of our lives, and enlivens it, grows us in it - with His Word, with His life.