Our garden has two levels. I plowed the upper tier of our garden about two weeks ago to make room for tomatoes and peppers. It is rocky and dry, and I hadn't plowed it in 2 seasons. I dreaded it. However, I was surprised and so grateful for the ease with which the ground yielded.
The lower tier is fertile and rich, a joy to plow and work. But this year, it was more like wet clay. The tiller clogged over and again. Several times I wanted to quit. But 26 plants - now overgrowing their starter pods - begged to be put in the ground.
Saturday night, when the sun finally tucked behind the giant maple, casting a shadow over much of the yard, I grabbed the tiller and headed back. Before long, sweat soaked my socks, saturated my gloves, soaked my shirt, and then, began dripping from my brow.
It was then that I thought of the words, "
By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground" (Gen. 3:19). The curse. Sin. All this tilling and sweating and fighting - two days to get a couple rows of plants in the ground, because of sin.
Not just any sin;
my sin. As I looked back through the dirt, I now saw paths of destruction. Earthworms torn in half, insects scurrying from their homes. Their death in exchange for my life. Man and his invention leaving a path of devastation.
And the clods of earth - the saturated, vine-filled earth - unwilling to yield, to follow,
to give in. It fought me (or I fought it) to the bitter end.
Then, a thought consumed me, and brought me to the point of tears. I prayed, "
My Father, I am sorry. I am so sorry that I am sometimes like this earth. Please forgive me for when I have been unyielding, for causing you such difficulty. I never want to disappoint you. I want to be good soil."
Then, my sorrow turned to praise. "
I don't deserve any of my blessings. Should this garden yield little, I will learn humility. Should it yield much, I will learn thanksgiving. Either way, I will rejoice in your goodness. I have failed you, but you have never failed me."
Later in the evening, as I began to write up this post, I thought of the Lord, in the Garden of Gethsemane. I remembered the words of the song,
"When Christ the man of sorrows,
with tears and sweat as blood,
prostrate in the garden,
raised his voice to God."
Me and my silly garden, my frustrations, my silly sweat and tears.
My Lord, Jesus - is awesome. He suffered alone in the olive press.
The next day, with no thought for himself,
he was crushed for me.
For you.
