I was moved by it, and I just thought I'd share what Summer wrote. Her thoughts, entitled 'The Gardener', are not in quotations. I put her little preface, though, in the quote box below.
For those of you who do not know, my father's brother, my Uncle passed away a few days ago, on my 26th birthday. This has been an incredibly hard time for all of us. My Uncle has been my next door neighbor my entire life. He was not fond of children however all the same I have many memories with him. He looked a lot like my father, but older and loved nothing more than to spend hot summer days in his garden. He grew one of the biggest gardens I know of every year. I can remember him so often planting his beans and then pulling them up as soon as they began to sprout simply because they did not look right to him. Gardening was his art. Not only did his vegetables feed all of us, they were also beautiful.
His funeral was held yesterday. What you are about to read is something I wrote as soon as I hit the door. It was how I saw him...the man he was, my father's brother. His relationship with his children was not always the best however all the same he was a person. He had a spirit, a life and with that a story. So often it is so sad for our stories are never told. The words I wrote were simple and really very short. I stretched my mind and took every detail, every memory, every piece I could remember and put it into this. This man was a part of who I am. He was a part of where I came from. Together, next door, we lived in these woods for many years. Though our words to each other were few, our stories were interlocked by time. This is what I can say about the man who was my father's brother, my Uncle Gilbert.
"The Gardener"
He pulls on his very worn denim with the buttons that snap up the front just the way he likes. His hands smell of fresh earth. His skin is worn like leather and his face is marked with time. His white hair now replaces the once black tousles that laid upon his head. The light reflects off the rim of his belt buckle, big and broad.
His stature is small yet his will is big. In his life he has been a son, a father and a brother. He has seen many troubles and endured many hardships always coming through to the other side. He is a fighter, a worker, a constant gardener. He finds joy in natural things. Things that go unnoticed. Things God rooted deep into the vessel of who we are. The earth, the sun, the seasons, all of these he understands.
We are in a cycle with everything around us, continuously striving to grow, to bloom. His worked hands shift through the ground as he prepares for a new crop. He feels the fever in his soul. He knows it is time for all things to blossom. He will tend to these things, protect them, nurture them, until they are ready.
On the day of the harvest, he will smile with great pride as he sees his work lay before him complete. His days are spent in the shade under the roof of an old tin shed. He watches and waits. Watches and waits. On that day they took him down to the meeting place. The place of old. The place of last days, last hours, last minutes. I saw them lay him there. Yet I know he doesn't lay, he stands. He stands, and works and brings in his crop. Inside of that holy place he prepares his garden...for I am certain even in the holiest of holy places there will always be a shade to be found under the roof of an old tin shed.
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