A Garden of My Own
Recent conversations have somehow revolved around the acquisition of homes: soon-to-be newly-weds purchasing HDB flats, recently-weds dealing with parent-and-child housing woes, unmarrieds moving out from the family home, the wisdom of purchasing a home as opposed to renting one in view of bible college or mission work plans...
While waiting for the laundry to be done, I sat staring at the rambutan tree I grew up climbing and was certain that, like a friend who lives successfully with his mates, 5 cats, 2 dogs and an unknown number of fish inBohemia Holland V, home would not be home without a garden.
Our garden would be a lush natural wild family garden that Roy Strong would not approve of. We'd cover brick walls with homey moss and allow pink bougainvillea and purple morning glory to climb them. We'd plant bamboo and sealing wax palm groves, small fields of red and yellow heliconia, fragrant colourful frangipani, african violets, chrysanthanum and gerbera, several species of rose and orchids, lucious mango and rambutan trees for our own consumption and papaya and chiku trees for the yellow black-naped orioles. We'd provide places where sun-birds could build their nests in peace, and build a small pond where our various cats could stare at the fish and tap the water lilies, and a little patio where we'd sit and have breakfast while our dogs stretch and rediscover the garden and where we'd be able to do a bit of painting in the cool dewy morning.
My reverie was interrupted by the high-pitched voice of a neighbour verbally abusing her maid for some minor intraction. The vulgarities continued for the next half hour.
Like the wearying and unending need to clean dirty muddy clothes and cleats, clear cakes of dust from the house and take out the smelly garbage, there will truly be no perfect peace and complete rest until the world is transformed at the coming of Christ. How I wait and long for that in this hard world, but yet how I fear the consequences of that for those whom I love but have not yet put their trust in the One who will come as their angry judge and sentence them to eternal death on that day.
While waiting for the laundry to be done, I sat staring at the rambutan tree I grew up climbing and was certain that, like a friend who lives successfully with his mates, 5 cats, 2 dogs and an unknown number of fish in
Our garden would be a lush natural wild family garden that Roy Strong would not approve of. We'd cover brick walls with homey moss and allow pink bougainvillea and purple morning glory to climb them. We'd plant bamboo and sealing wax palm groves, small fields of red and yellow heliconia, fragrant colourful frangipani, african violets, chrysanthanum and gerbera, several species of rose and orchids, lucious mango and rambutan trees for our own consumption and papaya and chiku trees for the yellow black-naped orioles. We'd provide places where sun-birds could build their nests in peace, and build a small pond where our various cats could stare at the fish and tap the water lilies, and a little patio where we'd sit and have breakfast while our dogs stretch and rediscover the garden and where we'd be able to do a bit of painting in the cool dewy morning.
My reverie was interrupted by the high-pitched voice of a neighbour verbally abusing her maid for some minor intraction. The vulgarities continued for the next half hour.
Like the wearying and unending need to clean dirty muddy clothes and cleats, clear cakes of dust from the house and take out the smelly garbage, there will truly be no perfect peace and complete rest until the world is transformed at the coming of Christ. How I wait and long for that in this hard world, but yet how I fear the consequences of that for those whom I love but have not yet put their trust in the One who will come as their angry judge and sentence them to eternal death on that day.
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