I am alone, yet not alone!
I hear Your voice, clearer and stronger, pure balm for my soul.
I do not have to explain.
It is enough that I feel You.
And You are real.
And You are mine!
This is my story!
This is my song!
With words or silent…this is my life and my song!
“I come to the garden alone
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
And He walks with me, and He talks with me
And He tells me I am His own
And the joy we share as we tarry there
None other has ever known
He speaks, and the sound of His voice,
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.
I’d stay in the garden with Him
Though the night around me be falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling”
(By Austin Miles)
Lia, going through old files…found this…at the time written, my sister had attempted suicide, again. My daughter told me she feels that she is gay and my son was still facing possible prison.Through it all, “He walks with me.”
In the stillness, a question comes. March 19, 2007
If your heart is a garden How does that garden appear to God?
Father, show me….
I knew it was not the glorious garden
Remembered from some time ago.
Riots of color,
A fountain spilling joy
A patch of peace
Dappled light moving as if breathing
We moved on.
Revisiting a desert place… Barren and hard, Crying for moisture.
Withered things that might have grown there
Have lost all hope.
Things that do grow there are covered
With thorns of self-protection.
A familiar place,
The Master’s hand is seen
In providing just enough shade to survive.
Just enough water
But this is not a place to linger
Again we moved on
Neither is my heart the formal garden
Regal, symmetrical, manicured, and calculated
It is not a rigid, controlled space.
A monument to legalism.
Littered with signs to stay on the path
Containing no surprises
No errant bloom dares to show itself here.
Once more, recognized,
His work is evident
In the “broken gates” once guarding
The place of my heart
and we moved on
Would we finally stop in the garden of weeds?
Overgrown, where selfish impulses florish
Alongside the brothers of deceit and denial of sin.
Self-righteousness and unforgiveness
Thrives in the shadows. Yet again, I am grateful for the constant weeding
My Gardener has provided,
As we move from this dark place
That once held my heart.
The last garden, becomes eminent, Our steps slow.
My Father draws closer,
ready to comfort
To view this, finally,
the condition of my heart.
Once, a glorious garden
filled with joy,
Now battered and ravaged by storms
Too numerous to count
Coming too close together
To allow full recovery.
Havoc gained entry here
Great limbs of pain are scattered
Across the patch of green
Debris everywhere
Choking the fountain
A mere trickle struggles Once there were glorious colors, now bruised and broken stalks hold the battered blooms.
In the sky overhead, ominous clouds,
The storms are not over.
But, now, standing in the arms of the Master Gardener
Peace has come again to the garden