What tending a garden taught me about rest, healing and trusting God 

I have been tired for a long time.

Not the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep fixes. The kind that settles into your bones after months of juggling work, studies and the relentless pace of life in Singapore. I had grown so used to it that I had stopped noticing.

Last year, I was asked to take over the leadership role of a gardening committee. I reluctantly agreed, but deep down I dreaded taking on another commitment – especially a large, overgrown garden. The plants were tangled, the soil compacted and there was no order to anything.

I had to make a mess before anything got better. Since I took over, we have (literally) overhauled the space to start anew. It’s a laborious, unglamorous process. Slowly, things have begun to grow – both in the garden and within me.

Healthy rhythms of work and rest

Through gardening, I’m made to adapt to creation’s rhythms, not my own, which challenges my hectic Singaporean pace of life.

The patient rhythms of creation are forming something new within me that hectic city life has eroded. Cultivating a garden using natural techniques is slow work. It requires tending, pruning and waiting.

The garden Dennis “inherited” before he started overhauling it.

Yet, this is in line with God’s vision for the whole of creation.

In Leviticus 25:3–4, God commands not only that humans observe rest, but the land too! For six years, the Israelites were to sow and reap. In the seventh year, the land was to have a solemn rest. The land is given time to regenerate. Nutrients are replenished.

And in that year of rest, God’s people are invited to trust that He will provide. Sabbath becomes an act of mutual flourishing – humans resting in trust and the earth resting in restoration. Sabbath, then, is not merely a pause. It is an act of trust that the world does not depend on our constant effort to hold it together.

A means of grace

Close your eyes for a moment and recall one of the most relaxing and beautiful places you have ever been. Let the scene unfold gently in your mind. Notice the colours, the sounds and the air.

Chances are, many of us would picture a place in nature – a quiet beach, a mountain view, a forest trail or even a community garden. Psychologists have offered several explanations for this: Our innate affinity with other living things, links to safety and provision, and even how nature serves to restore our depleted cognitive resources as city dwellers. There is something almost instinctive about the peace we associate with the natural world.

A friend once shared how, after losing her grandmother who had raised her, she found herself wandering alone in parks each weekend.  She had long battled depression, anxiety, eating disorders and a fragile sense of self-worth. Social settings often intensified her feelings of awkwardness and isolation. Yet in the quiet company of trees and open skies, she felt assured of God’s presence.

Creation became her sanctuary. Participating in wildlife conservation projects, she began to see beauty differently. Even creatures often feared or misunderstood, such as snakes, became symbols of a reframed perspective. In learning to see beauty in what others rejected, she slowly began reclaiming her own sense of worth as a child of God.

The garden now in progress.

Healing does not always come dramatically. Sometimes it appears in small, unexpected ways – in a walk through a park, in the tending of a garden, in the patient observation of a creature. We may not be completely free of our struggles, but we learn to live more gently with them. And in that gentleness, we are drawn back to the Creator.

For those who wrestle with anxiety, grief or depression, creation can become a means of grace. It reminds us that growth takes time and it reassures us that seasons change. Most importantly, it tells us that in our Father’s world, there is no “away”. This is our home.

Perspective that grounds and comforts me

God can also speak into the darkness through creation. These are the first words of God to Job in response to his suffering in Job 38:4: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding.” 

If you found it shocking, you’re not alone. It is perplexing that God’s response to Job’s anguish and depression is to ask him an impossible question! God then continues to ask more of the same questions of Job (38:16, 31, 34, paraphrased): Have you entered into the springs of the sea? Can you bind the chains of the constellations? Can you command the clouds to cover you in a flood of waters? This is followed by perplexing questions about oxen, hawks and even ostriches.

I doubt my hurting friend would appreciate me pointing to a nearby otter, crow or raintree and asking her if she would be able to command them. But God is singular in this because only He is the Creator of all. He is also a Creator who knows His creatures intimately from birth to death. Not just the doves and the eagles, but us too. He knows us, sees us and understands us fully, including our suffering.

Jesus tells us this in his Sermon on the Mount. He sees those who worry and directs their anxious hearts … to flowers and birds! Look at the birds of the air. Notice the lilies. 

What does it mean to notice the lilies? Canadian artist and spiritual director Scott Erickson challenges us by asking: “Can you see the cloud in the lily?” It takes clouds to make rain. And it takes rain to make lilies grow … so the cloud and the lily have an inter-being relationship. And he goes on to ask, “Can you see the ocean in the lily? Can you see the sun in the lily?”

To consider a single flower is to recognise its interdependence with all of creation. And when I see this web of inter-being, I begin to realise that we, too, belong within it. We are not isolated individuals striving alone. We are creatures of a vast, interconnected tapestry sustained by God.

I am reminded of our place in the grand story of God’s world. When I behold the wonders of creation, I’m gently put in my place. The dark clouds that surround me pale in comparison to the brilliance of the Almighty. The Maker of heaven and earth is also its Sustainer, and He alone will hold all things together, including you and me.

This reflection, written with support from Kezia Khoo, was first published in the April issue of Methodist Message. It is republished here with permission.

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