Finding Grace in the Gardens
There's something sacred about working with your hands in the soil. When I tend to my lavender and rosemary, I'm reminded of how God tends to us—with patience, care, and unwavering love.
My grandfather Thomas taught me that a garden is a sermon without words. Every seed that goes into the ground is an act of faith—faith that rain will come, that sun will shine, that life will emerge from what looks like death. Isn't that just like the gospel?
I inherited his green thumb along with his leather-bound Bible. Both have taught me profound lessons about God's character. In the garden, I've learned about:
Seeds don't become flowers overnight. Just like our spiritual growth, it takes time, the right conditions, and consistent care. I've planted seeds that took weeks to sprout, and I've seen people come to faith after years of gentle cultivation. God's timing is always perfect, even when it doesn't match our timeline.
Cutting back plants feels harsh, but it's necessary for healthy growth. God prunes us the same way—removing what doesn't serve our spiritual health, even when it hurts. The rose bush by my front porch blooms most beautifully after I've cut it back severely. Our greatest seasons of growth often follow our most difficult seasons of pruning.
The tiny lavender seeds I planted three years ago now fill half my garden with their fragrant purple blooms. From just a handful of seeds, I have enough lavender to make tea, give bouquets to neighbors, and still have plenty left over. God loves to multiply our small offerings—like the boy's lunch that fed thousands, or a simple song that touches hearts around the world.
When I garden, I feel connected to the first gardener—Adam, walking with God in Eden. I'm participating in God's creative work, partnering with Him to bring beauty and life into the world. Every flower that blooms is a collaboration between my small efforts and God's magnificent power.
Gardens teach you about seasons. There's a time for planting, growing, harvesting, and resting. In our productivity-obsessed culture, we forget that rest isn't laziness—it's part of God's design. Even the soil needs to rest to remain fertile. So do our souls.
My bees have taught me similar lessons. They work diligently, but they also know when to cluster together for warmth, when to venture out for nectar, and when to simply be still in the hive. As Psalm 119:103 says, "How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!" The honey from my hives reminds me daily of the sweetness of God's word.
Sometimes when I'm overwhelmed by the music industry, by expectations, by the pressure to always be "on," I escape to my garden. There, among the bees and the lavender, I remember who I am—not a performer, not a brand, but a beloved child of God who finds joy in simple things.
The garden has become my outdoor chapel. It's where I pray, where I write songs, where I meet with God in the early morning hours. It's where "Glass Between Heaven" was born, actually—I was deadheading roses and thinking about how we sometimes put barriers between ourselves and God's love, when we could simply rest in His presence.
If you're feeling disconnected from God, I encourage you to find your own garden—whether it's a backyard plot, a windowsill herb garden, or even just a single potted plant. Work with your hands. Watch for signs of life. Be patient with the process. And listen for God's voice in the rustling leaves.
As my grandfather used to say, "A garden is God's love made visible." In every bloom, every bee, every harvest, we see evidence of His care, His provision, and His delight in beauty.