In this tender tale, ‘The Garden’, a restless young man steps beyond the noise of his old life and into a monastery where silence speaks, earth teaches, and the heart is patiently tilled by unseen hands. His search for meaning becomes a gentle invitation, to rest, to surrender, and to discover the small beginnings of grace.
I hope it brings a smile to your face and a blessing to your heart.
The Garden
by J.K. Stenger
Cedar was certain, he would find the rest and peace he was looking for in the monastery. What he was really after was meaning and purpose. Could it be he was really looking for God? He wasn’t sure. In fact, he wasn’t sure about anything, which is why he had left the city and journeyed here. It had led him to this wooden gate of the monastery on a chilly day in early Spring. He had heard about this place and the reports intrigued him.
Apparently, the stillness here was so profound that one could hear the wind’s unspoken whispers that brought quiet hope and the soft, cheerful conversations of the flowers drifting in from the cloister gardens.
Of course, none of his friends would ever dream of coming near such a place. Yet it was exactly what Cedar sought. If only he could learn to be still, to step away from the mad rush of the world around him and discover how to live in harmony with the plan for which he was created. That was the goal.
He had never truly fit in. Some called him an oddball, but he was certain that the plan for which he had been created had little to do with the rowdy drinking parties his friends urged him to attend. Less even with the endless pursuit of wealth, fame or power.
And so, the thought of coming here had arisen. Here, he could lose himself in conversations with kindred souls, about meaningful subjects. He had brought his beloved tablet, brimming with a thousand books and a hundred downloaded self-help courses. His purse was empty. Empty, not from neglect, but from the cost of seeking answers in the wrong places: well-meaning therapists who listened patiently to his woes, yet could not point him toward the light he truly sought.
The monk who opened the door gave him a warm and benevolent smile and asked him what he came to do.
“I guess …” he began with hesitation, “I am looking for God. I’ve heard you know a lot about Him here, and I wish to discuss the way to true peace.”
The monk at the door, whose name was Eustacius, gave him a kind nod and said, “We do know some things about God, but which god are you looking for? There are many gods but most of them don’t live here.”
“Which of them live here then?” Cedar replied while narrowing his eyes. “I thought there was only One God.”
“Most people say they believe in only one God,” Eustacius replied, “yet the lives they lead tell a very different story.”
“I don’t understand,” Cedar said.
Eustacius shrugged. “What you love is what you serve. There’s the god of money, the god of lust, the god of fame and power …” He hesitated and added, “I can’t even begin to name them all.”
“I don’t want those gods,” Cedar replied a little indignant. “I am looking for the God who made us all, the creator of the universe … I believe some call Him the God of love.”
Eustacius smiled gently. “That is the One we serve here,” he said. “Come in, then.” He noticed Cedar’s tablet. “Uh… and what is that?”
Cedar’s eyes brightened. “This is my tablet,” he said. “It carries all my books and courses on the path to holiness.”
“Oh!” Eustacius said softly. “So, you already know the way?”
“Not yet,” Cedar admitted. “I had hoped to discuss them with you… to find the light.”
A shadow passed over Eustacius’ face and he said, “In much human wisdom there is much displeasure and exasperation; increasing knowledge increases sorrow.”
Before Cedar could reply he added, “You see, we have but one book here. And … uh … your books… well, we cannot read them. There is no electricity here.”
Cedar’s heart sank. “No electricity? But… how can I find the way to the light without it?”
Eustacius smiled weakly. “You have much to learn,” he said. “The true God dwells in your heart, needing no devices, no power from the world. Faith is not something you carry to Him, nor a skill you toil to achieve. True faith, true holiness… It all depends how much of God you allow to be in you.”
Cedar cast a gloomy look at his tablet. He still had a full battery, but once that was done, the thing was worthless. He looked up and said, “What then must I do, that I may work the works of God?”
Eustacius smiled and said, “They asked Jesus the same thing. He just answered that the work of God was to believe in Him.”
“Just believe?” Cedar blinked. “Surely, there must be more to it. We can’t just sit around and have faith and expect all things to turn out right.”
Eustacius didn’t answer, but changed the subject. “Let me get this straight: You want to study in our monastery?”
“I do,” Cedar gave the friar a hopeful nod. “I really do.”
“Then I welcome you,” Eustacius said. “Then you shall work in the garden.”
***
And so it was that Cedar came to work in the garden. That is to say, he had a patch of ground that he was to cultivate. A rough patch it was, amidst the beautiful gardens of the other monks, that excelled in beauty and fruitfulness. Birds twittered there and bees passed by with their joyful buzz. And they didn’t even seem to be spending all that much time in it.
But Cedar’s plot seemed dry and dead. It was nothing but a bare piece of hard, parched ground with overgrown weeds, a bunch of thorns and thistles and stones. In one of the corners stood a sickly-looking apple tree that seemed ready for the fire.
This garden would need lots of work.
No problem; Cedar was a hard worker and he would show these monks what kind of a person he was. They would admire his enthusiastic zeal and once he had shown them his worth he would have some wonderful discussions with them after work, about the light.
Hoping, the remaining power in his tablet would give him enough time to study his book ‘Gardening for Dummies’ he switched on his device and read the entire thing in record speed. He was ready for the work.
He dug holes in the ground, far too many, if anyone had asked, and yanked out weeds with righteous determination. Unfortunately, he also uprooted several perfectly innocent plants, but since he didn’t know the difference, they perished in silence. He removed stones, cut his fingers on the thornbush, then poured water into the holes he’d dug. The water immediately turned the whole place into a mud pit, which caused him to slip, only to cut his fingers again on the same thornbush. A curse rose to his lips. But remembering where he was, he swallowed it bravely and cursed only on the inside where, thankfully, no one could hear him except perhaps God, which made it even worse.
Gardening was a problem. A serious one.
And then, to top it all off, the battery in his tablet died, right as he was consulting his treasured guide, The Twelve Laws of Fruitful Gardening. It felt almost personal. Even the tablet was making a fool out of him.
The days that followed were not much better.
Nothing he did, worked out. The weeds he’d so aggressively pulled out, grew back overnight.
The seeds failed to sprout, his tools broke and when he finally believed he had made some progress, a rare storm in Spring ruined all his work in a matter of minutes.
While the monks of the monastery went to their gardens each morning with big smiles on their faces and even hummed some glorious hymns about the goodness of God, Cedar wasn’t sure anymore why he had come here.
He hadn’t learned a thing and instead of getting closer to the light he seemed ready to bury himself in his own muddy plot.
And at that particular morning, Cedar broke.
Eustacius, who was just checking the progress in the plot beside him, had lifted his voice in a gentle song of praise to the Creator when Cedar reached his limit. Something about that calm, melodious voice drifting over his chaotic garden was the last straw.
Cedar sank straight into the mud of his uncultivated, hopeless little plot, mud squishing under him as if the earth itself agreed with his misery.
Oh, what a beautiful morning
Oh, what a beautiful day
I’ve got a glorious feeling
Everything’s going God’s way
He let out a loud cry. This morning wasn’t beautiful at all, and things most certainly weren’t going “God’s way”, at least not according to Cedar who was sitting knee-deep in mud and despair.
“I can’t do it!” he shouted. “It’s hopeless!”
Eustacius stopped his singing mid-hymn. Without hesitation, he walked over to Cedar’s plot, knelt down beside him in the mud, and wrapped an arm around his shaking shoulders.
Cedar looked up, too exhausted to care that the monk could see the tears streaking his muddy face. “W-What are you doing?” he sobbed.
“It’s the breaking process,” Eustacius said gently. “It’s always the same.”
“What do you mean?” Cedar snapped, feeling angry and foolish all at once.
“It’s not your garden,” Eustacius said quietly. “It’s God’s Garden. And you simply are not letting Him work.”
Cedar’s anger flared. “What do you mean, I don’t let Him work? I do nothing but work! I’ve been slaving in this miserable garden from morning till night, and then I dream about it, just so I can keep working in my sleep!”
“Yes,” Eustacius said softly. “You are working day and night. Now it’s time to give God a chance.”
He paused, then a small smile spread across his face as something in the mud caught his eye.
“Look,” he said, while pointing.
Cedar blinked. There, barely visible, a tiny green shoot pushed its brave little head above the muck.
“That’s the beginning,” Eustacius continued. “Your garden is bearing fruit. But you must learn that God is the Master Gardener. Your task is simply to follow His pace, His timing, His leading. And ….” He paused for impact, “when you come to the end of your rope, He steps in and makes all things beautiful.”
Cedar leaned forward, squinting at the fragile thing. He hadn’t even noticed it before. If he had seen it earlier, he probably would have yanked it out, assuming it was just another weed.
“But…” he protested, “it’s so… small.”
Eustacius nodded. “Jesus said, faith can begin as tiny as a mustard seed. But once it grows, it becomes one of the most remarkable plants in the garden. Everything starts tender and small. It only needs the loving care of the Savior, and the willing hands of His helper.”
Cedar leaned back and stared at the monk; his face twisted in disbelief. “So… it’s not by my works then?” It came as a shock to realize it hadn’t been about his efforts at all; the life was already there, just waiting for him to notice.
The monk chuckled softly. “It’s all by grace that we are saved and not by works, lest anyone should boast. Now it also says that faith without works is dead… but the works must be the ones God leads you into, not the ones you force upon Him.”
Cedar frowned thoughtfully. “So… what do I do now?”
Eustacius pressed his lips together, then spoke softly. “Rest, instead of strive. Trust, instead of toil. And wait, instead of trying to force growth.”
A strange peace welled up from somewhere deep within Cedar. Small, almost too faint to notice, yet unmistakably there. It was the peace he had longed for all his life, the one he had chased through crowds and city streets but had never once found.
“Is there peace in your heart?” Eustacius asked suddenly.
“There is,” Cedar said softly. “It’s small… but it feels good.”
“Like that green shoot over there,” the monk replied, pointing again to the tiny blade of life pushing its way out of the earth. “This is why I gave you the garden to work in. This soil is your heart. And only a heart fully surrendered to God, one that stops striving after its own goals, can become a beautiful garden.”
A smile broke through Cedar’s tears. Without thinking, he threw his muddy arm around the gentle monk.
“I’m so glad I came to the monastery,” he said. “I’m learning a lot.”
As he rose from the mud, he felt lighter, as if the earth itself had breathed a blessing upon him and for the first time, he understood that peace was not something to be earned, but something to be received.