Behind my grandparents’ pink-painted stucco house, and beyond the screened in patio, was my grandfather’s garden. Rows of roses and gladiolas – which were for my grandmother, and rows of vegetables – corn, tomatoes, green beans, and more. I believe tending his garden was my grandfather’s meditation and connection with his creator. Most days he would come home for lunch and spend a few minutes out there watering or just checking on the plants, and then after work would do some more serious gardening, pulling weeds, hoeing, harvesting. I can recall learning how to shuck corn and snap beans from that garden. And the tomatoes – like nothing you have ever tasted! Firm and full of sun-kissed flavor. I am certain this is where he communed and conversed with God. So much so that it was in his garden that he took his last breath. He was so connected to that place that on my way back from his memorial service, as I walked into the garden from the back gate, I could still feel his presence and his peace.  And it was no wonder that the following was one of his favorite hymns:

In The Garden

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.

until next time…