I’ve met her a number of times before, but yesterday I didn’t recognise her. Cancer has taken its toll and her headscarf alerted me to the fact that chemotherapy had done its deadly deed. She greeted me cheerfully and assured me that the news was good, the treatment had arrested the disease and she was hopeful about the future.
This lady has spent a lifetime creating one of the most beautiful gardens I’ve ever seen. Its not just her gardening skills and knowledge that amaze me but her vision and ability to create breath taking spaces, each so different and complete in themselves, yet able to flow effortlessly into each other.
As I wandered around the garden, a soft rain of autumn leaves settled in my hair and on my shoulders. Many trees stood naked already and those that still blazed with vibrant colour were releasing their leaves to the gently breeze, in a final farewell to the season.
It is a garden in transition, like the gardener herself.
This lady has spent a lifetime creating one of the most beautiful gardens I’ve ever seen. Its not just her gardening skills and knowledge that amaze me but her vision and ability to create breath taking spaces, each so different and complete in themselves, yet able to flow effortlessly into each other.
As I wandered around the garden, a soft rain of autumn leaves settled in my hair and on my shoulders. Many trees stood naked already and those that still blazed with vibrant colour were releasing their leaves to the gently breeze, in a final farewell to the season.
It is a garden in transition, like the gardener herself.
And then in a moment I saw it everywhere. Hope.
I saw it rising out of the bare branches of the now naked trees. Buds … promising new growth and a future in another season. Many of those buds were tiny, barely visible and yet they were there, like the remnant of hope that we cling to when all around us seems bare and bleak. But sometimes that’s all we need. A bud of hope, no matter how small, gives us the strength to continue; like a vestige of light amidst the darkness.
I saw it in the large swelling buds of the rhododendron, intricate in design and the forerunner of the beauty and colour of its spring blossom. Who could imagine such majestic glory bursting from such a tightly knit bud, but then the wonder of what lays ahead in life is so often hidden from our view behind the folds of the present moment.
I saw it rising out of the bare branches of the now naked trees. Buds … promising new growth and a future in another season. Many of those buds were tiny, barely visible and yet they were there, like the remnant of hope that we cling to when all around us seems bare and bleak. But sometimes that’s all we need. A bud of hope, no matter how small, gives us the strength to continue; like a vestige of light amidst the darkness.
I saw it in the large swelling buds of the rhododendron, intricate in design and the forerunner of the beauty and colour of its spring blossom. Who could imagine such majestic glory bursting from such a tightly knit bud, but then the wonder of what lays ahead in life is so often hidden from our view behind the folds of the present moment.
I saw it again in the seedpods that were scattering hope with generous abandon … every seed holding the possibility of a new creation and every seed and pod unique.
Hope can’t be defined for it too is unique.
And I saw it in the tiniest shoots emerging from bulbs buried deep in the ground, whispering hope in a future not yet a reality. Always there are signposts though often we miss them or they are unrecognisable to our finite minds and earthly eyes. But we hope regardless until we see reality.
I love Eugene Petersen’s definition of hope, ‘alert expectation’. It’s such a positive image of waiting expectantly rather than holding on to hope with grim determination. For suffering produces patience and strength of character, which gives us the ability to wait hopefully for whatever God is wanting to do next in our lives.
Hope can’t be defined for it too is unique.
And I saw it in the tiniest shoots emerging from bulbs buried deep in the ground, whispering hope in a future not yet a reality. Always there are signposts though often we miss them or they are unrecognisable to our finite minds and earthly eyes. But we hope regardless until we see reality.
I love Eugene Petersen’s definition of hope, ‘alert expectation’. It’s such a positive image of waiting expectantly rather than holding on to hope with grim determination. For suffering produces patience and strength of character, which gives us the ability to wait hopefully for whatever God is wanting to do next in our lives.
I’d gone to this garden to immerse myself in autumn’s beauty but the garden had other ideas … it invited me to look beyond the obvious to see the wonder of hope, inconspicuous and yet vibrantly alive in all of nature. It reminded me of the inevitable transitions we all navigate throughout life and the modest and often unassuming nature of hope.
That hope which was deeply knit in the gardener's soul. When digging and building, sowing and planting left sore muscles and aching bones, hope got her up again the next morning; hope for what could be. The now towering trees were once just seedlings filled with hope. Now the garden is a masterpiece which will live on as an inspiration for generations to come.
Hope has a long view. I will plant the seed but someday someone else will sit under the shade of its branches.
That hope which was deeply knit in the gardener's soul. When digging and building, sowing and planting left sore muscles and aching bones, hope got her up again the next morning; hope for what could be. The now towering trees were once just seedlings filled with hope. Now the garden is a masterpiece which will live on as an inspiration for generations to come.
Hope has a long view. I will plant the seed but someday someone else will sit under the shade of its branches.
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