And they heard the voice of the LORD God
walking in the garden in the cool of the day…
the presence of the LORD God amongst the trees of the garden.
When I woke, just after seven o’clock, and got up and went to the window, I opened it to the mournful cooing of the dove standing sentinel on the neighboring roof line and a soft shimmer of dew upon the flowers and grass. There was a refreshing in the air, and a gentle, rain-washed breeze playing through the wind chimes on my porch, and the color radiance of the lone amethyst tree across the way gloriously reflected in an entire nearby picture window…and the peaceful, clean-linen scent of blossoming spring.
As I peeked from the window out over the deck to the tip of white ironwork bench below, where the blue hydrangea sway and glisten unto the sun and I could picture sun dappled light and shadow over the sweet bonnet-faced pansies and raspberry dahlias and the rock bed river beneath… all the little things of worry, seemingly justified or not, began to feel far-flung and impossible and dream-like.
Here in my little cul de sac, morning was just beginning to dance her shadow lights across the gazebo out beyond, and over lawn and flowering bushes. Trees wearing their fresh-painted coats of a green still sprigged with pear blossom, never brighter than in May, were not concerned for any fears or imaginings or worry-laced tears shed. Lilting notes of one bird calling to another echoed back and forth, unaware.
A robin ran suddenly across the porch railing like a tightrope walker, then down and over the lawn in quick, staccato movements. The mourning dove flew as if blindly, near-missing my window… then perching on a wicker chair, its beak moving soundlessly, like a movie that has suddenly gone silent… as if it were pondering, momentarily dazed. Just then, a squirrel broke the quiet and ran chittering up the tree across the way.
Every one oblivious to homes around… each one fresh and new with a cold milk pitcher dip of morning.
Soon, I would be opening other windows to cool-breezed air and birdsong and breathing in the scent of warm oatmeal bubbling with fresh fruit stirred in… and filling a water jug and taking it outside to refresh my flowers — those little pansy faces like maids a milking — and lifting my own face to light and breeze and wanting nothing more… in this moment… than to be.
Here… reaching back to His outstretched palm…
Lifting those concerns that in the dark of night seem weighty but now are light as white eyelet-scalloped dogwood petals I throw into the wind…where He catches them with His right hand and flings them far, far, far away and into the wave-foaming sea.
And I can hear the rhythm of His heart as He walks here… in the garden with me… and the settling of my own… as He sings of promise and hope that covers all, and of fresh anointings on all the work of my hands and more, and of new beginnings and grace-washed tomorrows where fear and doubt are no longer allowed…
And He is beckoning me to let go of them even now… and forever…
And I say yes. Yes to the peace and quietude He serenades through birds and sunlight on flowers and fresh breezes… and to life. And to trusting to simply refusing worries and taking every thought captive. And replacing them with hope…And to knowing His word never fails, because the peace He pours out is like the never-ending oil in the Shunammite woman’s jug. (2 Kings 4.)
Even in the later on… when the gardeners will pull in across the way, tugging red flatbed behind, obstructing the view and starting in with roaring machines and temporary discordance. Bees will begin their humming and butterflies come winging in the afternoon. In the evening, a bunny or two might settle warm upon my lawn until some car should come to chase them off to hollow and home.
But in this moment before day would soon begin, serenity hugged our circle of homes like Hands cupped around us, warm as tea. This peace…it will always be. A river flowing balm.
© Pam Depoyan (The above is my little exercise in descriptive writing a la Daphne Du Maurier whose lyrical words have been lately singing across the pages of “Rebecca” to me once more…)
And a river went out of Eden to water the garden…
Note: If you click on any of these photos, they will enlarge… I can’t get enough of seeing the details in the flowers, myself… 🙂 Just playing with my camera these days…