Part 2:
I hadn’t come here
since I was a girl. It had been far too long—this I knew with no doubt. I grew
up here, in my father’s garden. My garden.
It hadn’t lasted long. After a few failed attempts at influence and making
hearts beautiful, after a few rejections, I gave it up and left.
But
I missed Father, and I missed the garden. Would he still let me linger in its
bosom and lets its sweet fragrances whisk peace into my mind? Would it still do
for me what it did when I was a girl, after I had utterly abandoned the
precious gift?
The
questions instigated a flutter in my heart as I approached the massive white
gates. They were different than I remembered them. White, yes, but now the wood
looked old and the paint had chipped in several places. Thoughts of decay began
to crowd my mind. I had to know. In agony I pushed opened the gate, thinking of
how unworthy I was to be entering, even if the garden had decomposed. I knew it
would still be more beautiful than my fetid life.
I
staggered through the entrance, and my foot caught on something that pricked my
skin. I looked down to find the narrow path congested with about a dozen brown
and dry thorn bushes, six on each side. My pulse caught in my throat—where were
the pink roses that used to greet me, that used to calm the weary traveler that
came to my father for guidance? I was afraid to go on. What more devastation
would meet my eyes? But, ever so meticulously, I turned sideways and scooted my
feet through the stone pathway surrounded by thorns, watchful so as not to get
pierced again.
I
let out my breath as I reached the other side of the unsightly and dangerous
obstacle. Tentatively lifted my eyes. Releasing a breathy chuckle of disbelief,
I sank to my knees, taking in the sight until tears stung my eyes. It was even
more beautiful than I had remembered, and I couldn’t comprehend how. A flock of
whistling sparrows flew out from an archway up ahead to the right, dipping and
diving through the glowing flowers that lined the golden stone paths. The scene
was such a paradox to the gates and the thorns that my senses suddenly felt
overloaded. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know if I was breathing
any longer. But then one of my tears dropped onto the path, and a brilliant
blue flower with seven petals sprang up immediately from the rock.
How
could something even grow from stone? The unexpected growth surprised me. Its
beauty was unmatched, I thought, as I gazed at it incredulously. I noticed that
the air smelled sweet and spicy, a fragrance that soon filled my head with
pleasure. I closed my eyes as I stood up, just breathing in the intoxicating atmosphere.
Opening my eyes again, I surveyed all the flowers around me. There were little
multicolored ones to my left, and just ahead, several bushes of gorgeous white
roses. On my right were tulips of varying shades, and green daisies that stood
at least four feet tall.
I
was so enthralled with the beauty around me that I didn’t even hear the soft
footfalls. Until he stood before me and took my hand in his. I knew that touch—gentle but strong,
confident. But I couldn’t bring myself to look up into his eyes. What would I
read in them? Anger? Disappointment? Sorrow? Slowly, he lifted my chin with his
other hand. I couldn’t resist his gentle ways—in fact, now my whole being shook
with longing for him; my heart beat with a desperate mixture of fear and
desire. How could I know what would happen next?
My
face was now in line with his, but I couldn’t seem to tell my eyes to lift
themselves.
“Look
at me, dear one.”
At
once his familiar voice melted my resistance. I finally looked up and gazed
into those green pools. And what I found there was not what I expected. My
father’s eyes glimmered with moisture and yet they were oceans of love.
Stronger than I even remembered. They smiled at me, accepted me, and I didn’t
understand. The next thing I knew was that I was encompassed in a warm embrace
and I felt my hair being stroked gently as another strong arm was wrapped
firmly around my waist. I could hear his heart beating, and somehow I knew it
beat for me.
After
this reunion that felt like an eternity, my father finally let go and looked
again at my face. I could feel the thoughts swirling in his head, and I knew
there was a matter he needed to attend to.
“Come
with me. I need to show you something.”
His
tone had grown sober, and shadows of doubt began to
darken my heart. But I let him lead me away just the same. He took me to the
archway covered in greenery, the very one I had seen the sparrows make their exodus
from earlier. He glanced at me once before leading me through the arch.
Darkness. My eyes had to take a
moment to adjust. It was very dim in this part of the garden, and as my eyes
finally came into focus they took in our new surroundings with astonishment.
All that was here were what once had been flowers. Now, they were dry and
brown, much like the thorns at the gates. Then I saw our bench, and my heart
twisted. I doubled over and dry heaved, but sturdy arms lifted me.
“Come,” he said, and he practically
dragged my drooping body over to the bench, the one he used to take me to when I
was scared, the throne where we shared joys and tears and stories. Loads of
stories.
We sat. My spirit felt crushed.
“What… happened?” I whispered,
distress lacing my tone.
As if in response to my question, a
low rumble split the air, followed by a streak of light that barely missed the
bench. Then the sky gushed rain in sudden torrents, and we were instantly
drenched. Father stood up and gazed out at the damaged haven, water beading on
his hair and streaming down his face like cold tears.
“This is your heart.” He spoke with
sorrow. “You have neglected it for so long that its fruit has died.” He turned
to me, his mouth despondent, yet his eyes still pronouncing that love would
have its way. “You neglected me for
so long that the flowers couldn’t grow in the storms anymore.”
The realization hit me broadside,
and I doubled over again, moaning in grief. Oh, how I wanted to tell him how I
was sorry, how foolish I had been! How I longed to throw myself at his feet and
beg for him to take me back, even as a servant! Anything. I would do anything
for him. But somehow I knew that no attempt of mine to make amends would prove
sufficient. So I sat there and cried a cry of despair. I had lost so much.
A low groan reached my ears. It
began to rise both in volume and pitch, causing me to lift my head. Father
stood with his back to me, his form illuminated every so often by a flash of
lightning. Could the sound be coming from him? The groan gained even more
volume and then unexpectedly exploded into a guttural scream. Father’s face was
lifted to the sky and his arms hung tensed on either side of him, fingers
tightening and spreading apart. The sound threatened to burst through my ear
drums and I began to breathe hard, not understanding what was happening.
At last the scream settled, but it
quickly turned into wrenching sobs that shook his entire body. Tearless sobs.
My own heart coiled into a knot and sorrow crept up my throat as I watched. But
then I saw the blood. The crimson liquid began soaking through his garments and
pouring from his face and hands like sweat. I panicked. Had someone hurt him?
Several drops hit the dry ground, and when they made contact, the earth began
to sizzle and then bubble like boiling water. What was happening? I wanted to
rush forward and be with my father, to hold him and tell him I would never
leave him again. But my legs were rubber and refused to move. Was it I who had
hurt him? The revelation constricted my heart and I wanted to scream. I may
have, but any sound I made was drowned out by the intensity of my father’s
sobs.
Father sank to the ground. There
were now pools of blood all around him, causing the ground to hiss and boil.
His clothes were entirely drenched in red, and I wondered if he was dying. He’d
grown quiet.
Several breathless minutes passed
before I heard a soft note proceed from Father’s mouth. I began to inhale air
again, relieved. He was singing, softly. Then louder until I could hear the
grief mingling with the beautiful notes. He was crying as he sang. I watched in
wonder as his tears hit the bloody ground. When the first drops descended, the
blood vanished to reveal dark, moist soil. And as the tears soaked into the
fertile ground, bright and colorful flowers began to spring up all around him,
illuminating the atmosphere and soon returning light to the once desolate
retreat. He stood, his garments now white.
The song escaping his lips seemed to
flow out and cascade down through the dried up beds of flowers. Though the
melody was broken by his tears, it was the most stunning song I had ever heard,
a song of love. As the notes reached the dead flowers, they bounded to life
again and were pigmented with purples, blues, and oranges. Tears still fell to
the earth around his feet, and each time one of them hit the ground, a new
flower instantly grew up until he was encircled by a crowded bed of brilliance.
The fragrance from all the new flowers flooded my nostrils, and they flared in
delight. The perfume swelled through my head and heart, bringing relief and
peace.
Then he turned to me again. If I
could, I would have dived into those green oceans of love. He smiled and came
towards me, swept me up in his arms and carried me out through the archway
again. He gently placed me down on the golden pathway and scanned this part of
the garden.
Walking forward, he placed his
fingers on a bright yellow gardenia and smiled as if reminiscing.
“Liberty, every one of these flowers
has bloomed from my heart. In fact, this entire garden is my heart.” He looked at me. “Every tear I have cried for one of
you has produced a beautiful flower that has become a part of who you are now.
Every tear one of you has cried that
you have allowed me to touch has also turned into great beauty. And it’s all
here.” He spun around once, with his arms outstretched. “In my heart.” He came
close to me again and gazed into my eyes. “Dear one, stay here with me. Every
storm will plant a seed that will ultimately help someone else. Don’t run away
before you see its fulfillment. What you just witnessed in your own heart was
my promise already fulfilled.”
He broke away and headed towards the
white rose bush I had noted earlier. Breaking off one of the roses, he laughed.
As the sound left his mouth, a score of white butterflies fluttered away from
him and scattered every which way. My heart surged with joy. This was my
father, revealing himself in a way I hadn’t even seen as a girl.
He walked over and handed me the
rose, and I knew what it meant. I was clean. I was accepted. He loved me. He loved me, and his love hadn’t diminished
with my lack of faith. The way he looked at me I knew he wasn’t judging my
past.
I was his.
Suddenly
I felt I had to do something. I whirled on my feet, feeling like dancing, and
ran to the part of the path that was right in front of the thorns by the
entrance. I bent down and tenderly picked the blue flower than had sprung up
there from my tear.
As I handed it to Father, he took it
gently and wrapped me in another embrace.
I had given him the first fruit of
my healing to use as he pleased.
I stood there in his embrace and
inhaled his scent. I had missed it deeply. And as my doubts and fears were
smothered in his arms, I was confident I could never leave this place again.
