On the Uncommon Perception of My Garden

My second year of seminary is over! Only one more to go. For me, one of the worst parts of finishing the school year is the change of pace. My mind is finally given space to be as anxious as it wants to be, thinking of the future, purpose, calling, and nothing to do about it now. Free from homework and anything else to do after dinner until September, I
snapped my bundled-up daughter into the stroller and set out westward from our duplex for a short evening stroll in the West Michigan spring weather. The low golden rays of sun made a Lite Brite of the soft green maple leaves over our neighborhood park, the home of our little farmer's market that today seemed more like an adult version of a lemonade stand than anything else. Of the few vendors braving the chilly spring wind was a group selling what I swear were the same over-sized imported vegetables sold at Meijer ... marked up two-fold!

Disappointed, I passed the market, made a loop around my neighborhood, passing my friend's house, the coffee shop and the chiropractor's office. But just in front of the auto parts retailer something caught my eye. Between two driveways was a patch of green no larger than a dinner table. Full sun, I thought. Manageable space, I thought. Nothing growing here (yet), I thought. Lettuce. No, Kale. Kale is resilient, nutritious, and trendy. Maybe intersperse with some flowers? I could come plant it after hours even. I could put up a little fence and a donation box and a sign that says U-Pick Kale! Rounding the corner with my brilliant ideas in tow, I came upon something else: my garden, at home.

"Brendan, have you been thinking thoughts about other gardens?" said my uncommonly perceptive garden.

"Yes," I replied. "Forgive me, garden. Sometimes I get too excited about new things."

"That's not entirely true," she corrected. Was that sassyness in her tone? "You get too excited about far-away things."

Far-away things, explained my garden, are new ideas that are safe in their improbability; they are things that will probably never happen unless I devote all my attention to them, which is unlikely. In the meantime, these fantastic ideas act as hollowed out dreams that shelter my anxiety and drain my energy. Given a small patch of green no larger than a dinner table, my anxious mind grabs hold of fantasy and forgets it has a garden with plenty of space to plant all kinds of new things. What a convenient and addictive way to avoid the hard work of tending and the miracle of growth.

I have one more year of seminary and then I'm out. There are so many little green patches, far-away things that tempt me to imagine how much better life will be when I'm "free". But the God who set Adam in Eden is calling me back to his sacred garden of the present moment. How shall I tend it?

"The present moment is your sole treasure, for here is where the will of God is found. Do not insult today by looking for a better tomorrow! ... Let God work. View each moment as if it were the whole sweep of eternity." 

-Francois Fenelon