Driving at 6 a.m., the light at the top of the street turned red, even though mine was the only car at the intersection. Out beyond the bay, behind the hills, the sun was rising. In an instant, she crested— a tiny spot of blinding light— growing bigger. I had to raise my hand to shield my eyes as her orb lifted above the curve of the earth. Does the sun ever tire of warming the earth? I wondered. The light changed, and I gently pressed on the gas. The car rolled forward, towards the nursery.
Walking in the open air amid the rows of plants, I was in awe of the diversity of God’s handiwork. You never tire of creating, do you, I thought. I picked out a salvia for the back corner near the garden gate and placed it in the cart I pushed.
“Creating is what I do,” God whispered as I picked out some gazanias for the front of the bed. “I can’t tire of it, or I’d not be God.” He smiled. “Just as the sun can’t tire of her work to warm the earth, or she wouldn’t be what I created her to be.” He smiled.
“Can you give me an indefatigable desire to do the work you’ve created me to do?” I asked.
“Yes, I’ve already placed it in your heart,” He answered. “It’s why you write. It’s why you garden. It’s why you love the way you do.”
“Thank you,” I said. I picked out some sunflowers and placed them gently in the cart with the other flowers, eager to get back home to plant them all in God and mine’s garden.