A Prayer from the Garden

O Holy Gardener of my soul,
You who planted eternity in my heart
and meet me even in the thorns—

I come to You not with polished offerings,
but with open hands and petals bruised.
You know every sorrow I’ve carried like a secret seed,
every ache I’ve wrapped in silence.

Yet still, You tend to me.

In the places I wanted to hide,
You whispered, “This, too, is holy.”
In the waiting room of transformation,
You sat with me in stillness,
asking nothing
but trust.

Thank You for the unseen work —
the slow blooming,
the invisible wings unfolding
in the dark.

I honor You, my God,
not just for what You do,
but for who You are:
Companion, Keeper, Breath in my lungs.

Teach me to walk this garden with You —
to find You in the fragrance of grief,
in the hush of becoming,
in the voice of the friend I didn't know I needed.

Let my life speak of You.
Let my wounds shine with Your presence.
Let my transformation be communion.