<</div>Lord, Bring the Sand
"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven...and...a time to cast away stones."-The Teacher (Ecclesiastes 3:1,5 KJV)
"Writing a book is like driving a car at night. You only see as far as your headlights go, but you can make the whole trip that way"- E.L. Doctorow
I bent over in the tall weeds, yanking at roots while trying not to slide down the hill. My jeans were tucked into my boots and a sweaty headband held back my hair. I was filthy. Planting my feet firmly between the garage wall and the slippery slope, I swung the pickaxe over my head and connected with a large rock below the surface. The impact jangled my arms and shock waves rattled my teeth. I remembered why I'd been putting this off.
Through daisies and daffodils and marigolds and morning glories I've weeded and mulched and played by the gardening rules. I wasn't big on creativity but my results were solid and dependable. Then six years ago, Kevin and I bought a fixer-upper home, its yard a blank canvas begging to be planted. A creative spirit began to emerge from dull, dependable me. This wild woman was a gardener gone mad, envisioning sunlit profusions of wildflowers springing up along our berm. Inspiration seized me and I threw caution to the wind, selecting a seed mixture called "Colorado Wildflower Delight." I tossed the seed liberally into loose dirt, watered, and waited for the vision to become reality.
It was wild, all right. Delight, not so much. A few flowers grew up with a lot of weeds, and of course the weeds eventually won out. After years of half-hearted fixes I faced a choice: dig the whole thing up and plant grass or dig the whole thing up, prepare the soil, and plant a real garden. That crazy gardener (naive optimist that she is) decided to go for the gusto: pull all the weeds, dig up all the rocks, fertilize, plant flowers, lay weed barrier, and cover the whole thing with bark. Oh, and lay a flagstone walk along the top. Nothing a creative spirit couldn't handle.
On a Friday afternoon the boys left town and I became one with the yard. By the time they returned on Sunday I had almost completed this Herculean effort, save for placing the walkway. My wheelbarrow actually groaned as I loaded the heavy tiles, one by one. I pushed them up the hill with all my might and carefully set them along the top of the garden. In triumph I stepped out onto my flagstone path.
Not a single stone sat solidly upon the earth. On the contrary, they teetered and tottered and threatened to topple me down the hill. So I lugged them out of the way, hoisted the pick, and set out to level the ground. I swung and dug and pried out some of the rocks, but the more I maneuvered, the worse it got. The neighbors averted their eyes in pity. I was frustrated and exhausted and couldn't believe I had come this far only to fall on my face. In a last-ditch effort to stem the tide of tears, I finally asked Kevin if he had any ideas.
"Sure. Take some of that sand we have in the shed and rake it over the path. It will fill the holes and create a level surface. Then you can place the stones and they'll settle right in."
I felt like my husband had parted the Red Sea. An hour later, the creative spirit in me fairly danced along a garden path firmly set in place. My masterpiece was beautiful to behold. I had put in the hours and the sweat, but complete success was beyond my reach without the inspiration of someone who knew more than I about the process.
Meanwhile, another transformation was taking place. Right about the time the crazy gardener emerged from dull but dependable me, God spoke to me through an extraordinary event and invited me to write for His glory. For twenty-five years I had helped support my family by bookkeeping. My left-brained persona wasn't big on creativity but her results were solid and dependable. In response to God's invitation, I began to study and learn this creative avocation that promises no income and provides few rewards. Like finding rocks in the garden, I struggle with doubts about my ability and my calling. Sometimes I feel like the gardener gone mad with divine inspiration, but more often than not I feel like the naive optimist who has come this far just to fall on her face. While I have little control over the success or failure of my earthly endeavors, I can choose my attitude toward the work and I can pray in faith.
My Father parted the Red Sea. He can send the inspiration. It's my job to pull the weeds and rout the rocks and prepare the soil. It's God's job to bring the sand.
For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. (Ephesians 2:10 NIV)
©Rachel Ophoff 2010, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my website at http://www.friendshipwithjesus.com
"Writing a book is like driving a car at night. You only see as far as your headlights go, but you can make the whole trip that way"- E.L. Doctorow
I bent over in the tall weeds, yanking at roots while trying not to slide down the hill. My jeans were tucked into my boots and a sweaty headband held back my hair. I was filthy. Planting my feet firmly between the garage wall and the slippery slope, I swung the pickaxe over my head and connected with a large rock below the surface. The impact jangled my arms and shock waves rattled my teeth. I remembered why I'd been putting this off.
Through daisies and daffodils and marigolds and morning glories I've weeded and mulched and played by the gardening rules. I wasn't big on creativity but my results were solid and dependable. Then six years ago, Kevin and I bought a fixer-upper home, its yard a blank canvas begging to be planted. A creative spirit began to emerge from dull, dependable me. This wild woman was a gardener gone mad, envisioning sunlit profusions of wildflowers springing up along our berm. Inspiration seized me and I threw caution to the wind, selecting a seed mixture called "Colorado Wildflower Delight." I tossed the seed liberally into loose dirt, watered, and waited for the vision to become reality.
It was wild, all right. Delight, not so much. A few flowers grew up with a lot of weeds, and of course the weeds eventually won out. After years of half-hearted fixes I faced a choice: dig the whole thing up and plant grass or dig the whole thing up, prepare the soil, and plant a real garden. That crazy gardener (naive optimist that she is) decided to go for the gusto: pull all the weeds, dig up all the rocks, fertilize, plant flowers, lay weed barrier, and cover the whole thing with bark. Oh, and lay a flagstone walk along the top. Nothing a creative spirit couldn't handle.
On a Friday afternoon the boys left town and I became one with the yard. By the time they returned on Sunday I had almost completed this Herculean effort, save for placing the walkway. My wheelbarrow actually groaned as I loaded the heavy tiles, one by one. I pushed them up the hill with all my might and carefully set them along the top of the garden. In triumph I stepped out onto my flagstone path.
Not a single stone sat solidly upon the earth. On the contrary, they teetered and tottered and threatened to topple me down the hill. So I lugged them out of the way, hoisted the pick, and set out to level the ground. I swung and dug and pried out some of the rocks, but the more I maneuvered, the worse it got. The neighbors averted their eyes in pity. I was frustrated and exhausted and couldn't believe I had come this far only to fall on my face. In a last-ditch effort to stem the tide of tears, I finally asked Kevin if he had any ideas.
"Sure. Take some of that sand we have in the shed and rake it over the path. It will fill the holes and create a level surface. Then you can place the stones and they'll settle right in."
I felt like my husband had parted the Red Sea. An hour later, the creative spirit in me fairly danced along a garden path firmly set in place. My masterpiece was beautiful to behold. I had put in the hours and the sweat, but complete success was beyond my reach without the inspiration of someone who knew more than I about the process.
Meanwhile, another transformation was taking place. Right about the time the crazy gardener emerged from dull but dependable me, God spoke to me through an extraordinary event and invited me to write for His glory. For twenty-five years I had helped support my family by bookkeeping. My left-brained persona wasn't big on creativity but her results were solid and dependable. In response to God's invitation, I began to study and learn this creative avocation that promises no income and provides few rewards. Like finding rocks in the garden, I struggle with doubts about my ability and my calling. Sometimes I feel like the gardener gone mad with divine inspiration, but more often than not I feel like the naive optimist who has come this far just to fall on her face. While I have little control over the success or failure of my earthly endeavors, I can choose my attitude toward the work and I can pray in faith.
My Father parted the Red Sea. He can send the inspiration. It's my job to pull the weeds and rout the rocks and prepare the soil. It's God's job to bring the sand.
For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. (Ephesians 2:10 NIV)
©Rachel Ophoff 2010, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC. All Rights Reserved.
Visit my website at http://www.friendshipwithjesus.com
Posted by Rachel Ophoff at 10/29/2010 2:41 PM 
Categories: God, Faith, Prayer, Christian Writer, Hope, Trust, Christian Blogger, New Life
Tags: Hope Gods Plan Ecclesiates 3
Categories: God, Faith, Prayer, Christian Writer, Hope, Trust, Christian Blogger, New Life
Tags: Hope Gods Plan Ecclesiates 3
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