The Garden of Life
It’s summer, so I’m back in the garden again. It’s teeming with life and, as always, sparking so many thoughts for reflection. I’ve always said that I believe we can learn all that really matters about life and death in the garden. It’s no wonder that God chose gardens as the setting for sacred mysteries — Eden at the beginning, Gethsemane near the end. Gardens don’t just grow things. They reveal things.
A few days ago, as I dug holes for twenty salvia plants, I paused to notice all the activity around me. The ants were the first to catch my attention. I always cringe when I disturb their colonies after moving rocks. They rush in all directions, carrying off their young. I try to make sure that none were left behind, and I pray they quickly find a safe new place to settle with the group. Above and around me, the birds dart from tree to feeder, chipmunks scurry with cheeks full of seeds, squirrels chase each other up and down tree trunks and leap across branches like trained gymnasts. All the creatures are busy, and none seem to remain still very long — except for brief moments when danger seems imminent. The activity of the creatures around me is driven by instinct — to survive, to reproduce, to protect.
I too am driven by instincts — the need to eat, to earn a living, to stay safe and comfortable. Much of my day is shaped by these basic needs: preparing meals, doing laundry, working, managing bills, tending to the home. These are the rhythms of life and survival. But with each moment, I’m given the opportunity to pause and consider: What truly needs to be done and why? What can wait? What can be offered up or even let go? I can choose to rush and act mindlessly or slow down and pay attention to what I’m doing and why. In this way, even the most ordinary tasks — shopping, cooking, cleaning — become opportunities for discernment. Am I acting with love? With intention? With God? This is how we live our faith in the midst of life’s most ordinary moments.
Unlike the animals, I’m not bound by instinct alone. I’ve been given the freedom to notice, to choose wisely, and to live not merely for survival — but with purpose, faith, and love. It is a profound gift: the freedom to rise above the pull of impulse and to break free from the slavery of habit. I can pause. I can discern. I can offer. And I somehow innately know that my choices matter to my Creator. Every small act of love, every pause to reflect, every quiet “yes” or courageous “no” is noticed. This is one of the greatest gifts of my humanity: not just the freedom to act, but the freedom to act with intention — through, for, and with God.
I’m grateful for the reminders I received in the garden today. There is much to do, and much of it matters. Like the animals, I must tend to the rhythms of daily life — gathering, preparing, maintaining. But to be fully human is to move beyond instinct and into intention. It’s not easy. One might even say it’s unnatural. But we are not left to do it alone. God guides us to choose wisely, and He offers us the supernatural grace we need to move beyond our natural impulses. We need only pause, ask, listen, and He will give us the grace to see clearly, to choose well, and to act in ways that will bear fruit — for others, for the world, and for eternity.
P.S. If this reflection speaks to you, you might also enjoy my book, When on Earth: Discovering Christian Spirituality in the Daily Happenings of Ordinary Life. It’s a collection of personal stories, much like this one, where I wrestle with the challenges of listening for God’s voice responding with intention in the midst of everyday life.
