I just need a little tending, now.
A little knees sinking into soil,
there in the mix of muck and rocks and leaves which, in time, have clumped around me.
A little someone willing to get their hands messy,
to cup their palms and fingers around my withered boughs and see
they’re still alive, still growing, still capable of bearing fruit.
A little sitting right there next to me,
to meet my flailing tendrils where they’re at,
if only to share a moment of sweet presence,
and hum to me the quiet reminder of victory now and still to come.
I might just need a little watering, as well.
A little stream stretching deep into cracks
to quench the desert patches of my soul.
A little shower, and at times, a downpour
to cleanse my mind so often scuffed by sin.
A little sending down the bucket into the well,
for Living Water I admit my soul is thirsting, and do, in fact, believe always will.
And while my fists may clench as I say this,
I just need a little pruning right now, too.
A little admonition of things tempting,
for voices are strong and comforts lure me quick.
A little peeling away my tight-gripped fingers,
wrapped around stakes of offenses holding me back.
A little scraping away layers which have tarnished,
for underneath I trust you see His good intent.
So if you see something about me that seems disordered,
straying brambles, vines a ramble, briers poking through,
chances are that I just need a little tending.
The Gardener believes I’m worth a million chances.