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I have said many times that the garden is my therapy.

It’s my place of peace. Where the stresses of the world are set aside and, for the moment, replaced with the nurturing of God’s creation.

It feeds me physically, mentally, emotionally, and most of all, spiritually.

My wife and I were married ten years before our first child blessed our world. During those years, my garden was my child. It consumed the largest chunk of my “available” time.

Even before marriage, wherever I was living, I found a place to dig and to plant.

A few years into parenting I decided that my nurturing needed to turn to my children. Time didn’t allow me to do both well. So I removed my large garden and found myself content with several pots on the patio.

The joy of fatherhood far outweighed any joy I found with the plants. And I knew that one day, Lord willing, my hands would find their way back to the dirt.

Now my daughters are grown.

The ground has called.

And I have answered.

I could never have guessed that it would be something like “quarantine” that would plunge me deep into the soil.

Timing was impeccable. A gift the good Lord knew I needed right then.

After locking the gallery doors and isolating at home, He knew I needed a place of peace.

A place to set aside the stresses of the world.

A place to put my hands in the dirt and be silent with Him.

It’s a gift that keeps on giving.

It’s where I take my coffee in the morning, and I prepare for rest at night.

Tending it is my meditation.

I listen.

I watch.

I pray.

A prayer of thanksgiving. And a prayer of praise.

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