
And I think of Jesus in the garden
watching over the flowers
as they grow without me there.
Jesus in the garden in morning dew.
Watching the ladybugs on the daylilies,
beetles scurrying in dirt
and the yellow candy butterflies fluttering.
Jesus in the garden in the rain.
Caring for the nightcrawlers
I hid under the monk’s hood after the fishing trip.
Seeing the straw flowers close.
. . .
I remember Jesus hovering
hugely above the newly sprouted plants.
Asking him to care for the tiny tomato plants
I may have put out too early.
Jesus, pure white like snow.
Dominating the garden.
The plants flourished.
The tender tomato plants now hang heavy with fruit
and Jesus still stands guard watching…
pitted from the rain and sun…
crumbling a bit.
And part of me wants to bring him inside
where he’ll be safe.
Does he spend himself caring for the earth?
Exposed to the same elements
that make the garden plants thrive,
does he begin to wither?
And I leave him perched on that rock
just behind the rhubarb.
Watching him watch the flowers.
Waiting to see what will happen next.
I am comforted by this Jesus.
In the garden in the rain.
In sun.
In thunder.
In night.
Not hidden away in a great cathedral, draped in ceremony,
but cavorting with ladybugs and bumblebees.
The nightcrawlers,
and such a worm as I.