enough as she stood before the little garden tool shed, Harvest could
hear the lulling cadence of a fiddle somewhere in the distance. It
was a beautiful garden, albeit small. The beds were meticulously
kept. No weed in sight, just the quaint image of perfect rows of
perfectly ripe fruit and vegetables. The aroma was delicious as
around the small garden grew a hedge of blossoming rose bushes.
Harvest reached inside her invitation to pull out some fresh rose
petals. Her nose took a deep drink of them, then leaned over to
smell the roses on the bushes. “This is it,” she thought.
Seeing a chair on the small patio by the shed, Harvest
made her way to it to rest for a moment, all the while hearing the
fiddle reels closing in. It wasn’t a few moments after she sat down
that she heard the fiddle just behind her, and turning around found a
jovial Papa, complete with straw hat, offering her his hand. “Let’s
show them how it’s done, my Harvest.” Papa grinned.
Harvest smiled, and then took a few moments to search
for the fiddle which seemed like it should be right next to her.
“You won’t find it, dear one,” Papa affirmed, “the music is
stirring from inside you.”
Harvest eyed Him with confusion, “But it got louder
the closer you were.”
Papa nodded, “Think of it this way, my presence is a
sounding board for the inner workings of your heart. The closer I
get, the louder it resounds.” With that, He looked down at His hand
again and eagerly looked back up at Harvest. Harvest willingly
reached out her hand and in a whirl, she and Papa took to the patio
transforming it into a wee Irish dance floor. Fiddle reels and
giggles filled the small garden until suddenly the music stopped.
Harvest put her hands on hear heart, “Oh no! I’m so
sorry, Papa, the music is gone. I’m not sure what I did.”
Papa drew near to Harvest and embraced her as only Papa
could. “No, no my Harvest. It seems the song has only come to an
end, to make way for a new song. Rest assured, the music only gets
better and better. Now we can eagerly await the melodies to come.”
Harvest let out a sigh of relief and both the weary dancers took a
seat on the patio.
“What do you think of my little garden, here,
Harvest?”
“It’s rather beautiful, Papa, though, honestly I
expected any garden of Yours to be a bit larger.” Papa smiled
knowingly at Harvest then turned to look over his small garden, “This
is one of the smaller varieties. I thought it would be a fitting
place to begin, before I show you one of the larger varieties.”
Papa stood up and walked to the tool shed. “We will need some
tools to work in the other garden,” he said opening up the door.
“Pick one.”
“Pick one?” Harvest rose from her chair and peered
into the shed. Her eyes widened. Inside was a curious collection of
typical garden tools and some not so typical ones. On the floor she
spotted ballet slippers, on the shelf she noted a can of paint
brushes and hanging on the wall was a simple fishing pole.
“But you can only pick one.” Papa repeated.
Harvest
entered the shed looking over the range of tools. What
should she pick? Was this a test? How could ballet slippers prove
productive for a gardening task?
Scouring the shelves, the walls, and the floor, she finally came
across an object that, though seemingly unfit for a day in the
garden, was in her mind the only perfect item to be found. She
carefully pulled it out from behind the shovels and hoes and dragged
it outside to Papa, whose eyes spoke, confirming of His delight in
her choice.
tool.” He picked up the tall silver sword and draped it over His
shoulder. “Follow me, Harvest.”
