Prayer for a Garden

Father God, it's easy to thank You for the plants, but first, I thank You for the dirt. The grit that gets under my fingernails and fills the tread of my shoes, dropping little black zigzags as I walk, a breadcrumb trail of sorts that gives away "she's come from the garden." 

It's into the dirt that the seed falls and dies, to sprout green shoots that look nothing like it, a picture of resurrection. It's into the dirt that a bare root nestles, stretches underground to anchor to life, to bloom with roses that look nothing like it, to display in their petals logarithmic spiral, Fibonacci Sequence, Golden Ratio. Oh, the precision, the mystery, the intentionality! Oh, how everything You do speaks.  

It's into the dirt that the seed of the good word falls when it falls on our hearts, though now we call it soil, lest dirt be too humble a word, too reminiscent of sin. But dirt is correct; rocks and thorns will not do. It's the good soil that nurtures life.

Lord, you chose to form man from the dirt. We, made in your image, come from the dirt. Oh, how holy, set apart, is the dirt!

Father, we celebrate the plants, the vegetables, the fruits, the flowers, the bounty, the beauty. We celebrate that season after season, year after year, they will not fail, because of the garden plot. The land. The soil. The dirt.

Thank You, Holy Lord, for the dirt.