Here it is!

My new almost flash-fiction-but true short story. I hope you like it. Please tell me if it needs improvement, I'm open to constructive criticism. I don't know why, but it won't allow me to indent. Could someone tell me how to indent. I copy and pasted from a Word document. Thanks!



Yours in Christ!



The Garden
I see a garden, stretching for miles to infinity. Every vegetable plausible, rows of tomatoes, beans and a few unknown to me grace the earth. Peas, pumpkins reach with viny expectation across the expanse, skipping intertwining with each other. I reach out while walking, caressing leaves of corn, listening as they rub against their neighbors. Wind lifts my hair throwing it dancing, twirling just as it does the corn silk. Lifting my face to the sun, feeling love and warmth caress my face, sudden rain falls from a source unseen and the earth responds with this blessing with joy. A sense of peace plows deep within me and I know the God who cares for each plant cares for me as well.

Looking down at the ground again, I marvel at the at the frond-like carrot stems. Stooping closer, their softness caresses my hand; I’m remembering a happier time of innocence and trust long forgotten because of hurt and dreams lost. Something catches my eye as I examine wondrous creations God has made. Expecting to once again to feel the Lord’s incredible gift of joy of lovely times, I experience an unexpected pain. I’m compelled to pull out the unwanted plant, knowing this weed with spread its vileness throughout the garden. I cannot, will not let this happen. Grabbing the plant at its base with both hands I wrench as hard as possible, and yet it doesn’t move. My hand is now covered with penetrating cuts, blood and spasms of pain.

Tears of frustration stream from reddened eyes splash and water the ground. I try again and fail again, and the weeds multiply as if to mock my efforts. God’s graceful creation is tarnished by my inability to fulfill a simple task. Darkness begins to enclose the garden and my mind.

But through it all, a Voice slices through that darkness. I do not know how I know this, but with certainty I recognize this is the Voice of my Creator.

In a whisper, the Voice asks “What are you doing?”

I answer, “I’m trying to remove these weeds.”

A rumble of thunder peels across the garden, “Where did this weed come from?”

I reply ashamed, “You know, Lord.”

Silence, all encompassing silence follows as I run up the rows of vegetables, hoping to sprint out of the once beautiful garden. Fear and disgrace flood my heart as I reflect upon the answer to the question I know will be asked of me.

The wind stirs and blows, violently throws those precious leaves. “Where do these weeds come from?” the Voice demands again.

I must answer. It is time. “They come from me, Lord,” I weep “they come from me!”

The Voice, now very loud, ripping through my being, shouts, “What will you do about it?!”

Without hesitation, I grab the weed, determined to get rid of the ugliness. I pull and feel the pain in my hands, but also in my heart. I continue to pull, only glancing and the hole that appears in my chest. I pull until the only thing I feel is numbness. No more joy, just emptiness. I look at the garden around me and see the desolation caused by the evermore multiplying weeds. Tired of trying to do the impossible, I sink to the earth, hoping it would consume me. I feel abandoned and want to be left alone to die.

The Voice, now a whisper again, gently asks “Where do these weeds come from?”

Mustering up what little strength left, I reply “They… Are... My… Sins.”
Time passes. Perhaps, He really has given up on me, and left me to face my fate. I am now consumed by loneliness and lowliness of my state. But, in my despair, I hear the Voice again.

“You are not strong enough. I will do it for you.”

My strength completely ebbs, as my thoughts wander to the past. The hole in my chest, once deaden feels aflame. It is worse than the pain faced when pulling the weeds, so in desperation, I grab hold of the closest weed, hoping it will block the pain of my emptiness. It does for awhile, but the hole grows deeper and wider, more painful than before, but still I cling to the weed. Faces of people I have purposely hurt, lusts and greed I’ve felt, lies I have told long enough that I believe them flood to the deepest part of me, surrounding and crushing my soul. My sin has robbed me of my strength. Shame overtakes me and I hardly notice that the Voice, now made Man, walking toward me.

He kneels down, and I can feel His intense eyes on me. He reaches, and touches my shoulder. I cringe, not even daring to look at Him, for He is whole, and I am not.

“I must do it for you,” He says.

“I know,” and weep.

“Look at me,” He commands.

“I cannot.” I think to myself, You are whole, and I am… Not.

“You cannot look at Me because you are not whole. Look at My hands, child.”
I glance at His hands, then the ground, and then back to His hands again. They have scars deeper than the ones I bear. How can this be, since He is complete and has no holes? I look at my own hands, still bleeding and deep, but not as deep as His had been. I marvel at the mystery.

“My child, these scars you see now were there before the dawn of creation. I bear them now because I love you.”

What?! I think.

“I love you. I always have and always will.”

Speechless, I say to myself; but my sin... I clutch the weed harder and cringe at the pain.

“Your sin is nothing compared to Me. You must let go and never hold onto it again.”
Staring at my hand, slowly, I will my fingers to uncurl and they respond, save the last one. This finger will not comply.

“Help,” I whisper, “I cannot do this alone.”

He mercifully but firmly pulls my finger. I do not know why, but I resist.

“You must let go or you will die,” He says.

Yielding, sobbing, I let go and give the weed up to Him because I know it to be true.

“Watch,” He commands.

Trembling, I gaze as His strong hands seize the weed and rip it out from the ground. I feel a tough of pain from the hole in my chest and am about the cry to Him when He stops me.

“Wait,” He commands.

Pain is slowly replaced with a sensation never truly felt before. Peace! Enveloping, comforting peace, all because that weed is gone. The hole is filled with peace. But then, I stare at all the weeds to come, and a fear tries to steal it away.

The Lord, knowing his creature says, “Child, why do you fear?”

“Lord, I see all of these weeds. There are a lot of them and it scares me. What if You grow tired and leave me.”

“Whatever I start, I always complete,” He says, “I will not leave you to do something you will never be able to do if left by yourself. You are still incomplete, but not for long.”

How long will this take, I wonder? I ask myself.

“A lifetime,” He replies. “Look at My hands, and then look at your own.”

His hands are covered with cuts work confidently on the next weed. This one is stubborn, but soon gives way to His strength. Pain, than peace flood me again, but this time instead of looking at the rows of vegetables and weeds, I gaze at my hands. One by one, the once gapping cuts begin to heal.

Amazed, I look at Him, the Voice who became Man. He smiles broadly at me and touches my hand. I no longer feel my incompleteness, but His wholeness. I cry, not because of fear, but gratitude.

“It is because I took your wounds and made them my own that you can be healed.”

Unable, and not wanting to control myself, I reach over the row and hug Him, whispering “thank You.”

I can feel Him smile as He says “you are my child and you are certainly welcome!”

Letting go, I glimpse back what is left behind. “Never look back,” He says, “but keep your eyes on Me. Before you know, it the work will be done. You will be finished, completed work of beauty and art.”

Emboldened, I ask, “What will happen to the vegetables in my garden?”

“Others will come along and marvel at it. Some may even eat. They will know that it was tended by Me.”

“But, what will I eat, if not my vegetables?” I ask.

“Child, you will enjoy my Garden. It has always been complete and never needed weeding.”

Before long, I notice we have come to the very last weed, and my garden has come to an end. His scared hand lovingly grabs my healed hand and we walk into the Garden, my new home.