Dear God, I tend my little garden plot, tucked away behind an inauspicious dwelling, on a forgotten byway. Rows of growth, arranged neatly. None visit; my square of soil is a secret and unnoticed place. Lord, let me tend my inner life with all the greater care for its invisibility and forgottenness. Every plucked weed a simple prayer.
The weather visits the garden and the wasteland equally. Wind builds and gushing rain robs the soil. All my care, ruined.
O Lord, how can I better thank thee for this chance to rebuild? The skies reveal your warming sun. Let me with joy set about work with my trowel.
I will rearrange the pieces, and you, my Lord, you will sweep them aside. Over and over. Let me, my sweet guide, eagerly await each new repetition.
Let me laugh and dance in the rain rather than curse the flood.