Fiachra’s Garden

This page is dedicated to explore what it means to be hospitable toward all God’s creatures as we cooperate with the Creator in the cultivation of His garden.

When Fiachra planted his garden long ago, he certainly had practical concerns in mind, like feeding and healing his guests. But his garden was also in itself a celebration of life. And Fiachra’s work in it was an act of worship toward the Creator of life and the Healer of all broken things.

The garden is a sacrament to the gracious works of God. In the garden, we are called upon to work hard at creating a plan, building the soil, planting the seed, watering, and weeding. But in the end, the resulting growth is really God’s work. Without His creating and sustaining miracles, nothing at all would grow. And yet that doesn’t nullify our work, because without our planting, God’s miracles could not take root in the same places or the same way. We are called upon to plant the miracles, setting the stage for divine activity.

It is the same way in the garden of God’s Kingdom. God works in our lives and calls us to participate in His work. Unless we do the work of planting and tending in our own life and in the lives of others, many in need will never receive the help God would give them. If necessary, God may do more dramatic sorts of miracles. But God has chosen in most cases to work His grace through His people. Let us be open to this calling—in the garden and in the Kingdom.

Come, explore what it means to cooperate with God in the making of miracles, in the planting and cultivation of life.

*      *      *

I sometimes dream of a garden,

where light dances among the branches of trees,

where all is quiet yet vibrant,

where color and light spin a tapestry of glory,

where the wind plays a symphony in leaves and grass.

It is a place where God walks in the cool of the evening,

where God speaks gentle, strong, and low.

I sometimes wonder if all that was lost from that first garden—where God, man, woman, and all creatures lived together in harmonious joy—might somehow still be recovered, even if just for a moment. Could we somehow all once again move as one to the divine symphony? Might we once again hear the voice of God?

I sometimes kneel, with soil on hands and sweat on brow,

when light dances among the branches of the trees,

when all is quiet yet vibrant,

when color and light spin a tapestry of glory,

when the wind plays a symphony in leaves and grass.

And I sense the footsteps of God walking near

and somehow hear his voice speaking gentle, strong, and low.

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