The Gardener's Whisper

I step into the garden, my bare feet sinking into the soft earth. The scent of lilies and roses carried on the breeze, filling the air with a delicate beauty. I notice patches of wildflowers in one corner, swaying gently in the breeze, their colors vibrant with life. Yet, just beyond them, the ground is overgrown—thick with weeds that coil like serpents around the stems of wilting lilies.

A sigh escapes me. Why does it always seem like the weeds grow among the flowers, stealing their strength?

I kneel beside a struggling lily, its petals curled slightly inward, as if afraid to open.

You'll never bloom, the weeds hiss, their thorny tendrils tightening around its stem. You're too weak.

The lily trembles. Maybe they're right. Maybe the lilies were never meant to grow.

I reach out, intending to pull the weeds away, but I hesitate, knowing their roots run deep, tangled beneath the surface.

What if I damage the lily in the process? What if the weeds bear thorns?

A warm presence moves beside me. I do not have to look up to know He is there.

My child, the Gardener proclaims, His whisper as gentle as the breeze. Why do you fear? This garden does not grow by your hands alone.

I bow my head. But the weeds… they're choking everything that was meant to grow and harming everything beautiful.

He kneels beside me, His fingers brushing the earth. Yes, but even the strongest weeds cannot withstand My hands. He reaches down, effortlessly pulling the thorns from their roots, shaking the dirt free. Some weeds must be removed in time. Others I leave for a season—to strengthen what is growing beside them. Uproot them too soon, and you risk disturbing the harvest that is yet to come.

I watch as the lily, now freed, stretches toward the sunlight.

Do you see? He asks. Even when the weeds crowd the lilies, even when their roots intertwine, I am tending to this garden. His eyes meet mine. I am tending to you.

A breeze stirs the leaves, carrying the scent of the flowers once more. I close my eyes, breathing it in. The weeds are not gone entirely—but the Gardener is here, with me, and that is enough.

As I rise to walk forward, I can feel the slight tug of the weeds around me, attempting to entangle me with their influence. Their pull is familiar, yet something within me has shifted. I glance back at the flowers, and I feel the gardener's presence as His hands still tend the earth.

Some weeds will remain and new ones will sprout. The garden will need care, pruning, and patience—not just today, but always. Yet, I no longer carry the weight of fixing it alone, and my concern for the lilies has eased. Even in the chaos of growth, there is purpose. Even in the struggle and testing, there is beauty.

As I walk away, the breeze carries His whisper to me once more: I am tending to this garden. I am tending to you.

1 Corinthians 3:7
So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.