One Weed at a Time

Dusk came.
The reddish sun had already retired, But I still had light for a good 15 min.
Anyone with a garden knows that every little bit helps.

So I grabbed my gloves and a bucket – prepared for hand to leaf combat with the little invaders creeping up under my tomatoes.

It's amazing how something so simple can be so satisfying. With every weed I threw in my bucket another burden rolled off my shoulders. As Prayers bubbled up and spilled out of me as I cleaned the beds of our small garden, so too the Master Gardener pulls the "weeds" from my heart.

This week. That conversation. Her heart. His pain. My hope. Their safety. Will I? Can they? How can we? But what if…!?

Deep breath. Exhale.

The sweet smells of summer..
Warm dirt.
Tomato leaves.
Blackberry breeze.

Deep breath. Exhale.

My bucket is full.
And my burdens are easy.

There are still some weeds.
I still have some burdens.
But with the weeds away the plants can focus on their purpose! To grow and thrive and be beautiful and be fruitful.

My own weeds have been traded in for thankfulness.

My bucket is full.

Pacific Northwest Hobbit Life

  • Everyday begins and ends with a cup of tea.
  • Books from the last 2 centuries adorn shelves and surfaces around the house – The oldest and most beloved are kept on shelves with glass doors.
  • Food is enjoyed – preparation, serving, eating – makes the cleaning up worth it.
  • Dessert is delighted in for anything that can be called a special occasion.
  • Bird watching is a daily endeavor.
  • Watching the weather and discussing it is not small talk; it is an important facet of life.
  • Golden hour: right before sunset, when the trees dance in the last of the day’s sunshine, is meant to be openly admired – it is never the same.
  • An open or cast iron fireplace is a necessary part of life.
  • Music happens everyday.
  • This weekend we are planting the potatoes and tomatoes.
  • The Cat is appropriately named after British Pottery (Mine is Denby the Shire Cat).
  • Work boots are as necessary as bare feet on a sunny afternoon.
  • We work hard so that we can play hard and rest well.

You’ll have to stop by sometime and see for yourself… I really do live in the Shire.

 

The Deep Place… where God lives

A wonderful British woman named Jill Briscoe taught me (along with the rest of the radio listeners) about the deep place, where only God lives… and tonight I listened.

I sat down on the doorstep of my heart and thought about listening.

I thought about how full my heart was… the Lord has given me so much to fill it with… and then I try to shove alot of other things on top of it! With that thought came a tumult of cares and people and situations – most of which are out of my control. It was so loud that I finally burst into tears. When the tears stopped I sat in the silent loneliness of the moment.
On the doorstep of my heart, there is a loneliness that hangs about, like summer sunshine without any breeze – the air can get stale.

Just as I thought about leaving, I remembered – I am not alone.

“Where is Jesus? I know that He lives here.”

That was when I noticed the watering can sitting beside the garden of my heart… a twinge of guilt stung my heart, but with it awoke a desire even stronger. So strong, I had to act on it. Jesus loves to garden and He lets me help.

The watering can was full and I knew He wanted me to water the flowers of my heart.
The weeds were trying to steal the nutrients from the good seeds.
As I took up the can a delicious breeze kissed my cheek, so gently that if I hadn’t been about the Gardner’s work I would’ve missed it.

I heard Him somewhere in my heart, whistling while He sorted through a box of broken hopes and secret dreams… He know to keep and what to throw out.

I was anxious to get down to business, and see everything come to right, but sorting through the dust and disarray of love and hurt in life takes time.

He has given me a task and I need to do it.

So today, I water the garden of my heart with His living water and leave the heavy-hearted cleaning to the Lord.

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