The Picture

Dear Eugene,

I looked out the window this morning before grabbing Sumi's leash, and there were layers of periwinkle cotton-candy in the sky.  I knew I was in for something good.

Yet I let my heart sink, even as my eyes were fixated on the fluffy mystery: It's lawn-mowing season all over again...

Such sinking seemed so natural a thing, with a mind and will of its own, that I seldom bothered to flag it down for identification, question its legitimacy, find out where it comes from and where it's leading me.

Tending to our garden is human's most primal vocation, reflecting God's glory as we are created to live creatively.  How for most it had changed to a fear-inducing burden, over a bite of an apple or some other way, I shall never know; as I grew up, I wasn't even aware there is a vocation to reclaim.  We have all but surrendered to the fallen way of the world that what was primordially unnatural became the incontestable default, that we are supposed to be self-hating narcissist, perpetually-thirsty hedonist, chasing after cotton-candy in the sky, thought we had a heavenly experience but missed its earthly meaning.

And how a man's "redemption" would have nothing to do with the reclamation of his vocation as God's vice-regent has to be one of the biggest lies we tell each others.  Do we truly understand what we are being saved from if we have no idea what we are being saved for?  If we feel no energy in living our resurrected lives, have we done our proper share of dying and are we feeding on the right bread?  Our words often do not fit the picture.

I hope one day I will grow to be as good a gardener as you are.  My flower bed is still in a state of disrepair--or, more like damage control.  Spring is here, and it smells good.  Let there be light, and let there be life!

Yours, Alex

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