What is it about working in the garden that makes me fall in love with God again?

I could analyze it.

I could break it down and say that it’s the feeling of the waiting earth. The heavy-scented dirt in my hands, the dust filling the cracks within my palms covering me.

┬áLike God’s love.

Or it could be the sharp-ended hoe that I smash to the ground, cutting up unwanted roots from crab-grass and weeds, threatening to take over my garden.

Like my old-self.

It could be the exercise from digging and hauling and moving, making me alive but sore.

Like God changing me.

It could be the tiniest of seeds waiting so patiently to be planted, to be cared for and nurtured.

Like God’s Word.

Or it could be the fertilizer that I have to carefully mix within my red watering can, and sprinkle it evenly and carefully so I don’t accidentally kill anything.

Like the words from my mouth.

Or it could be the new growth popping out of the ground, so fresh and green and cheerful and abundant.

Like my faith.

It could be the anticipation of the harvest yet to come. The hardwork and the love put into the garden that will result in a bounty of deliciousness and joy.

Like the promise of eternal life.

I could analyze it all.

But as I dig, and weed, and plant, and separate, and fertilize, and harvest, and burn my shoulders, and sing my songs, I actually don’t think of any of that.

All I can think, the entire time I am out there is:

wonderful.

wonderful.

wonderful.

wonderful.