Even in your old age, I am God. I will take care of you.
The gate pushed open with a rusty groan. I should oil that, I thought as I walked over to what was left of the garden. A few tomatoes, shriveled and sagging earthward, hung heavy from their branches. I walked to where the squash had grown. The once hardy plants. now unrecognizable, were returning to the soil. Even the still-standing kale looked tattered and forlorn. A rotten apple squished beneath my shoe—its slippery mess now flattened beneath my weight. I scraped off the slime on the grass. A damp wind blew through the trees and I shivered.
“The garden looks rather sad, God,” I said. “But there is a sacred beauty to it.”
“Not everyone can see it,” God said. “To some, it would be depressing.”
“Not to me. I see your handiwork. I have a great respect for the process going on here.”
“All of life is in my care. Even in old age. Even in death,” God said softly.
I nodded. “You are a mystery, God. But I trust you, even with the end of life.”
I looked up and saw a lone bird flying above the fruit trees, its brown body blending in with the dark clouds. A drop of rain fell. Then another. And another. I turned my collar to the wind and made my way back to the cottage, feeling quiet and humble, appreciative of whatever time I have left here on the planet.