When I left early that morning, the bed was empty.  Both of them.  His side of our bed.  Like the flower bed on the side of our driveway.  Was untouched.  Void of life.  Both of them.  Sheets.  Soil.  Flat.  It was a painful morning.

It was a beautiful morning.  The sun was shining and the birds were chirping and the clouds were puffed up with spring moving, gently, softly, quietly across the sky and across the land to the rhythm of aloha.  I pulled out of our drive.  Taking with me a touch beauty and a touch of pain, and pictures, in my mind, of dreams.  Dashed.  The sight of our empty marriage bed and the empty flower bed.  Burned.  Into my brain.  Both beds, created with dreams of gardens blossoming for days and years of life, to be filled.  By us.  Laid here before me that morning.  Empty and dead.  Like my heart.  Like me.  Like a tree, alone.

Creation must have known what was ahead of me this day because creation was singing, with the birds that morning, warm songs of love in my eyes, in my ears, for me.  Creation was moving that morning, clouds, and wind, and Spring, with Joy.  To fill my empty heart with blue skies and red birds and a yellow sun and green grass.  To prepare my flat heart.  With the color.  Of Grace for the day before me.  Because Creation knows about pain.  The whole earth mourns.  With us.  In this land of the living so painful juxtaposed up against the beauty.  Creation covered me with beauty and mourned with me in pain this day, like so many days before during a divorce battle that raged for years of one day raging after another after another.  Raging.  Devouring.  Destroying.  our dreams.  Leaving my heart, and the beds, empty.  This day would be painful.  Juxtaposed up against all the beauty of the morning, I left knowing there would be mourning in the day.  Because I knew I would be standing, like a lone tree.  On a witness stand in an open courtroom for all to see.  

I raised up my branch, swearing, budding, with God as my witness.  And then sat.  Down.  In the wide seat of the hard wooden chair in the wings of that morning.  And sighed.  A big sigh.  Of pain.  And then on this day before me, I was.  Cross.  examined.  The world.  questioning. my faith.  I was belittled and badgered.  Cut.  To the heart.  With the weight of the world bearing down on me, screaming down upon. my soul, so downcast within me.  My soul was examined, my mind and my Strength, questioned.  While the world stood, over me, shaking, her head, wagging, her finger.  Of ridicule.  At my trunk.  Of faith.  Stripping me of my leaves.  Of hope of a marriage bed once again filled.  Shaming me.  Blaming me.  Baring my raw naked wood.  I just sat there, in the soil of it all.  Confused.  How a marriage that had been created, established, on an altar before God as our witness.  That how, now, on this day before me.  Our bed, of dreams, now laid bare.  empty.  like a tomb.  With no hope of resurrection.  Of Spring.

I don't remember the drive home that day, but I will always remember arriving home that day.  To a bed.  Filled.  With my favorite spring flowers.  Peonies.  And roses to bloom all season long.  Butterfly bushes and Iris to brighten my days, before me, to bring Joy, for me, every Spring.  And grasses to wave at me for seasons, welcoming me home every day.  The soil.  In this bed was no longer flat, but had been prepared.  Tilled.  For life.  To grow.  I came home to a garden bed filled, scattering beauty, to my friend who had planted it, scattering smiles, that day.  And to a phone call from my dad and my mom, who had paid for it to be planted, that day.  On a day when they were in the middle of a battle of their own.  Cancer.  That raged.  For years of one day raging after another after another.  But they were Still.  Wanting to care, for me.  I still am not sure who timed the garden bed to be filled that day.  Or if any of the three had an idea of the significance it would bring that day and all the days before me.  But I've settled down, like a lone tree, into the soil where I'm planted in this land with the understanding that it was a conspiracy.  Of Mercy.  Moving to the rhythm of aloha.  Timed.  Softly.  Gently.  Quietly.  by Grace.  Providence.  Just like creation brought me that morning blue skies and singing birds and white puffy clouds.  Creation.  by Grace.  Moved.  Family and friend.  To bring me flowers.

I have been struck, by lightning.  Fire.  Flashing across my skies, burning a path.  Lighting up.  My eyes.  To see.  Notice.  God.  As my witness.  In Life.  He moves.  Clouds and birds and doors.  Leaves.  People.  And flowers.  Joy.  for me.  to hide in.  At the moment I need it most.  To fill.  An empty.  Journal.  Prepare.  my soul.  Till.  The flat soil of my heart.  Yes, my branches have been pruned.  Clipped.  Back.  Of my ability to fix.  Things.  Circumstances.  People.  That I might see that I never really could.  Fix.  Anything or anyone or any circumstance.  For it is by Grace.  alone.  Things.  Circumstances.  People.  Gardens.  Lone trees.  Like me.  Grow.  And change.  Seasons.  To the rhythm of aloha, softly, gently, quietly, at the pace of Grace.  Though it tarries.  I will wait for it, because it comes, bringing me flowers. 

On this day, the one before me.  We are facing, my kids and I, another battle.  The battle that has been raging for years of one day raging after another after another.  The battle to keep Our Hebron Home, and the garden bed, that is full of life, on this land that I walked with my dad, continually rests, under me.  Under us.  This garden, this home, this land, that is planted, cannot, like furniture, be packed up and moved.  This garden, where a lone tree is now planted.  Like me on that witness stand.  Like me in this home.  Like me on this land.  Where there's Room for Beauty.

Since I took the picture of the lone tree, budding.  I noticed. How it has bloomed.  This year, the flowers are bigger and more beautiful than they have ever been since I planted it in memory of my dads life, that began, again, in a new Morning, in The Garden, of Heaven, six years ago. This year.  Just as it looks darkest in our battle to stay, planted, here in Our Hebron Home, the tree is blossoming.  More than it ever has.

Although the fig tree shall not blossom...

I have been.  Rejoicing in the Lord, when beds were empty, when there is no fruit.  When my labour fails and there is no yield.  When I have been cut off and shut up, in the womb of the morning, and the stalls.  and the beds.  Are empty.  I've continued rejoicing, by Grace alone,  in the Lord. Because, as His Creation, i am always being moved.  To look.  And keep looking.  Over rainbows.  For signs.  That are lit up by lightening that flashes across my skies.  Lifting my eyes to see and keep seeing.  His promises.  of Hope.  Found.  Hidden.  In His Word.  For all to see.  That things.  people.  circumstances.  Seasons.  Will.  Do.  Change.  By Grace, alone.  To the rhythm of aloha.  Softly.  Gently.  Quietly.  they change.

I am.  A lone tree.  Planted.  Here.  Rejoicing.  My trunk has settled down into the soil.  So rich with pain and beauty.  My roots are down deep, in this land, that rests, under me, holding me, in this Garden.  Where I AM.  In Our Hebron Home.  On this day before me.  My branches reaching out.  Reaching up.  To Heaven.  Full.  And Blossoming.  With Hope.  And Joy.  For me.

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