Hey, God ... Wanna Talk?

One of my dad's favorite hymns was the old song "I Come to the Garden Alone," written by C. Austin Miles in March of 1912. Daddy had a sweet tenor voice, and if I close my eyes and try really, really, really hard, I think I can almost hear him singing the old hymn as he tilled the dirt, planted the seeds and harvested the vegetables in the garden he had made on the lower side of the vacant lot next to the garage. I can picture him in my mind ... the faded and worn overalls hooked across his shoulders ... the tattered green cap protecting his bald head from the sun's hot rays ... the dark brown gloves shielding his hands from splinters and blisters. If I haven't learned anything else as an adult, I've come to understand how blessed I was to have such a wonderful man as Daddy for my father ... a hardworking man with a deep and abiding faith and a heart for others like no one I've ever known.

Daddy loved farming and gardening, and I remember him often saying that he loved digging in the dirt and raising crops so much because that was where he felt the closest to God. I also remember many lessons Daddy taught me as I worked beside him in his beloved garden ... lessons about working the land and how to plant and weed and water and cultivate and harvest. But the lessons I remember most are the ones that matter ... lessons about how to live, how to treat other people and how to love and serve God. Daddy had a way of teaching me things as we dug in the dark, rich Tennessee soil or picked shiny, red tomatoes from the vines. And more often than not, those lessons came in the form of a story ... a story like the one about when he discovered God lived in a hot, dusty, Georgia cotton field. Daddy would take off his cap and wipe the sweat from his brow and say, "Sam, did I ever tell you about the day I met the Lord while I was pickin' cotton?" And for every time I replied, "Yes, Daddy, you did," Daddy would always say, "Well, Sam, I'm gonna tell you again because it's when we're all alone in the middle of the field that He talks the loudest."

Today at work, I was talking with a friend about God ... more specifically, I was telling my friend that I've been having some rather lengthy conversations with God as of late. I've been talking to the Big Guy while I'm walking on the trail, which is as close as I come to a garden or a field these days, I suppose. I've been talking to Him about ... well ... I've been talking to Him about some really, really, really tough stuff. And the more I talk to Him, the more I'm beginning to understand how very much He loves me (the real me) ... He created me (the real me) ... He knows me (the real me) ... He wants me (the real me). There's something else I'm beginning to understand as I talk to Him ... He wants to talk to me as well, and He's got some pretty big and important stuff to tell me. And for the first time in a very long time, I'm trying my best to listen ... with my ears wide open ... with my ears wide open, friends.

The old song my dad loved to sing as he worked in the garden has been stuck in my head for a few days, and I'm going to close with the lyrics to it. I wonder if the song writer had any idea all those years ago when he penned the words just how many people would be moved and changed by them. There was no way Mr. Miles could have known or even imagined the impact the song would have on a gray-haired gal in Kansas ... he couldn't have known at all ... but God did ... He surely, surely did.

"I come to the garden alone
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
 
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
 
He speaks, and the sound of His voice,
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.
 
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
 
I'd stay in the garden with Him
Though the night around me be falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling.
 
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known."