The last of the roses

I have been collecting the last roses from the garden.

Roses in full bloom, soft petals drinking life from the morning light...

How happy they make me—their vibrant colors and fragrances. 

And as I take into my mouth some of the ripe grapes I gathered from the garden this very same morning, I marvel at the goodness of God revealed in nature. I marvel at the beauty of roses and at the simple sweetness of grapes, at how wonderful they feel in my hands before bursting upon my tongue—round and full, carrying the goodness of a season that has patiently ripened beneath the sun.

Nature enthralls me, and yet there is something bittersweet about it. One day, everything is so full of life; and then, almost without notice, everything begins to fade.

The roses that one day were overflowing with life—petals soft and radiant, holding all the beauty of the moment—the next day begin to dry and fade. What was so full of color and fragrance is gently surrendering to time.

There is something so tender about watching the roses surrender their petals. They remind me how quickly time passes—how one moment we are gathering sweetness, holding beauty in our hands, and the next, we are watching it quietly slip away. Nothing in this earthly life remains forever; everything has its season, its moment of flourishing, and its time of letting go. Perhaps that is why I treasure each bloom so deeply.  For a little while, we are given the gift of beauty to hold.

There is also something deeply spiritual to learn in watching the roses fade. As their petals soften and their colors deepen, we begin to notice a different kind of beauty—one we might have missed when they were in full bloom. Colors seem to deepen, soft blushes become richer, darker shades. Their fading does not seem merely like an ending, but part of the quiet mystery of life: a gentle reminder that even surrender can hold beauty, and that perhaps there are things God can teach us only as we learn to let go.

And, maybe.... maybe roses and grapes in my garden are trying to teach me something...

There is beauty even in the fading. There's even hope and perhaps, endings are not always meant to be feared, because God can bring something deeper and more beautiful out of what seems to be passing away.

The roses from my garden remind me that life is passing. The grapes from my garden remind me to taste its sweetness while I am here.

Both are gifts from the same Gardener.

One teaches me to let go.

The other teaches me to receive.

And together they whisper the same beautiful truth:

There is a season for everything under heaven. Some things wither, some things ripen, and some things must wait for another spring.

But nothing is wasted in the hands of God.

Even the fading rose points toward resurrection.

Even the sweetness of a ripe grape reminds me that God is still filling this present moment with goodness.

So today, I will not mourn what is fading without also giving thanks for what is still blooming, still ripening, still filling my hands with sweetness.

There is beauty in the ending.

There is joy in the present.

And there is hope in what is yet to come.

The garden in the gentler season

I love this time of year, when the fierce heat of summer is finally a thing of the past and a renewed mellowness settles over the garden.

There is a softness in the air now. The mornings feel gentler, the afternoons carry a cooler breeze, and everything seems to breathe a little more slowly. The roses, as if they have been waiting for this moment, begin to bloom again. Black-eyed Susans awaken the earth with their deep golden faces, swaying gracefully in the afternoon breeze. The garden seems to be finding its second breath.

I love watching this quiet transformation. Nothing happens all at once. There is no announcement, no great display. A bud simply opens. A seedling pushes through the soil. A tired-looking plant suddenly sends out a new blossom.

And as I walk among them, I can almost hear the voice of God whispering:

“The kingdom of God is as if a man should scatter seed upon the ground, and should sleep and rise night and day, and the seed should sprout and grow, he knows not how.”
— Mark 4:26–27

Perhaps that is one of the great mysteries of the garden—and of faith.

We plant, we water, we wait. And then God does what only God can do.

The gardener does not command the seed to grow. He cannot pull it from the earth and make it bloom by force. He simply trusts the hidden work taking place beneath the soil.

And perhaps our lives are much the same.

There are seasons when we feel as though nothing is happening. We pray, we wait, we wonder if God is doing anything at all. We may look at our own hearts and see only dry places, unfinished growth, or branches that seem to have stopped blooming.

But beneath the surface, God may be doing His quiet work.

Roots are deepening. Faith is growing. Something new is forming where we cannot yet see it.

The garden reminds me that God is not finished simply because I cannot see the flowers.

He is working in the hidden places.

And then, sometimes when we least expect it, a rose appears again.

A forgotten seed blooms.

A tired branch becomes green.

And we realize that grace was growing all along.

So I want to remember this as I enter another season of my life: I do not have to understand everything God is doing. I only have to trust the One who planted the seed.

He knows the season.

He knows the soil.

He knows when it is time to rest, when it is time to grow, and when it is time to bloom again.

And perhaps that is what the garden is whispering to me today:

Be patient, dear heart.

God is still growing something beautiful in you.