The Gardener

I’ve been writing—about victories and failures, about despair and hope, and all the shades in between. I’ve been walking too. Walking through fields of tangled thorns and wild growth, not always sure what’s being cultivated. Some days, it’s lush and inviting; other days, it’s brutal and unyielding. Yet somehow, even in the barren patches, life still finds a way to grow—offering both nourishment and struggle at the same table.

I’ve come to realize that growth isn’t always about planting new seeds. Sometimes, it’s about tending to what’s already there. There’s plowing, planting, and pruning, but there’s also the necessity of letting go, of releasing the roots that have become too tangled. It shouldn’t surprise me, then, that after all this work I’ve stumbled upon another patch of diseased ground. I guess some roots run deeper than others—relentless shoots that keep popping their little heads.

I suppose that’s life. At least, that’s what they say. But is it really okay? Because honestly, sometimes I’m just tired. Tired of the cycle, tired of the wrestling. But if I don’t remind myself of where I’ve come from, I’ll forget there’s an uphill motion happening. Progress is slow, uneven, messy—but it’s happening. I’m not where I was. And neither are you.

So, here I am, walking along this winding path. A journey where I can only see the road as I’m walking on it, discovering the way forward as my toes grip the mud, steadying myself before taking the next stride.

Uncertainty. The unknown. Lack of control. The perfect ingredients for peace, right? I doubt either of us finds that reassuring, though somewhere, it rings true. Though the ground beneath us shakes, we’re not alone on the narrow road.

But let’s be honest. The real battle isn’t just with the path—it’s with control, trust, and surrender. The struggle to let go, to believe He is leading, to unclench my fists when everything in me wants to hold on. That’s where the real growth happens, isn't it?

​​I’ve built fences around my land, kept it neat, controlled, and protected. The lines were tight. The posts were sturdy. No winds would blow them down—or so I thought. I watched over my little piece of the world with vigilance, believing it was the only way to keep it safe, to keep me safe. From the outside, it looked strong, secure, maybe even admirable. But between you and me—it was an illusion. A well-maintained facade, masking soil that was dry and longing for rain.

The same fences that keep predators out can also lock allies away.

What once felt like protection eventually became a prison. Isolation crept in, silent and unrelenting. Loneliness settled deep. And sadness—thick, heavy, unavoidable—started seeping through the cracks. Real. Raw. From a deep well.

Then, He taught me it didn’t have to be that way.

One bright morning, as I stood on the hill overlooking my garden, a gentle breeze stirred the air. It drew me to my knees in quiet contemplation. Humbly I began to reflect, inquire, question, and seek. There are promises out there waiting to come alive. There are principles waiting to be activated. But before that, it was time to take the scarecrow down, the barbed wire, the metal walls, oh and… the beware of dogs’ sign. I mean, I don’t even have a dog...

Let it go, Gen, let it go. Not everything barks and bites.

So as I lingered a little longer, in the stillness, I heard His relentless invitation to let my guard down, to let go of the armor, and surrender my weapons. Whispering into my ears, He reminded me of His trustworthiness and love. It’s okay to need some help, even when I don’t want it. Or do I? I actually believe I do, and yet, it’s excruciating.

How do you open your heart? How do you let someone in that deep? I’m just flat out scared. Terrified. I thought I had done my part—I built a door and had some people visit a few weeks ago. I even gave them a basket of fruit and offered a few flowers. Feels like I’ve done my share. I opened up. I guess the part I left out was that I didn’t invite them back in. I recognized I wasn’t consistent.

He continued and suggested that this part of the journey would require a little more. A little more trust. A little more letting go. A little more consistency in those two exact things—trusting and letting go.

I can humbly say those are harder lessons to learn and as my toes grip the soil beneath them, I come into contact with the root of self-protection and independence. It’s time to excavate.

So yeah, I’ve been writing. And I see it now—the pen has never been mine alone to hold. My story isn’t my own to write. He has been waiting for me, saying, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light".

It’s time to make an exchange, and let Him take me a little further.

We cannot heal what we won’t reveal.

As we begin to expose ourselves, we begin to notice, and all of a sudden the tools make themselves known and we find ourselves better equipped to navigate these new terrains.

Today, for me, it means letting an ally in. Adding another resource to my small team of helpers so I can face another stubborn root, this time with more precision.

Healing isn’t a one-time decision; it’s a series of small, brave acts of surrender—letting go of the armor, inviting others in, and giving ourselves permission to grow where we are planted. And if we can do that, we’ll see that it’s not just the soil that’s being transformed—it’s us, too.

And the best part is, we have a helper. The Gardener of our hearts and souls. Always there, working alongside us. Perhaps He’s tending yours, too.

What fences have you built around your own heart?

What might happen if you take them down?

What allies might come in and nurture your soil?

For me, I imagine those allies will look like love, compassion, grace, and more freedom—offering the kind of harvest I long for.

What new harvest might you delight in?