When twisting monsters rip through lands and homes, splintering pieces of lives like twigs, and burying people, when they clear dirt trails of death, I am reminded of other devastating holes. Holes that have been cut by twisters of another kind, with a vortex just as sharp, gnawing through tender skin creating a sinkhole deep. Sometimes no siren will warn.
These tornadic holes rip through hearts and minds and leave carnage of another kind. These tornadoes, words sharp enough to rip through dreams and slit hearts in two, leave strewn pieces of hearts and hopes scattered across human landscape. Harmful words deposit refuse, leaving vulnerable souls wandering amidst that which should have been tied up and thrown away, not released to rot and stink.
When the storm hits, and leaves its holes, that’s when he comes in, and performs a most delicate work, filling in the deep with fertile soil and warmth and sun and water. He holds in his hands exquisite, tiny seeds which are planted in the broken ground, word-seeds of life and love. His hands cradle the earth, the seeds, always holding, tenderly caring. And what blooms is something unimaginable to human eye, flowers that are beautiful beyond description, fragrant and precious… hearts and souls woven together in a garden of grace. These once tornadic holes are now bursting beauty unimaginable, tenderly cared for by the Master Gardener himself.