Many years ago there lived a little girl who loved her grandmother’s garden. You may know a girl like her or you may be like her.
Summer evenings were the little girl’s favorite time. That was the time the mourning doves came to drink at the small garden pond near the front porch where she sat quietly with her grandmother. As the coolness began to soothe away the heat of the day, the doves would alight on the utility wire above the street with a whirring of wings. The doves were always punctual and polite. They perched in an orderly row on the wire talking to one another in hushed voices while waiting patiently for a turn to drink from the pond. Their daily ritual continued till each dove, one by one dropped to the sidewalk and unhurriedly made its way to the garden pond. Each drank slowly and neatly and then flew back to its perch on the wire while the next dove took its turn, cooing all the while. This cooing was unlike any sound she had every heard. It was soft and seemed to bubble up from deep within. It was gentle, yet sad.
Your might think that the little girl would be very happy in the beautiful garden. But her own heart sang a song like the mourning doves, coming from a sadness deep within. There were so many things she didn’t understand. Why had her father left? Why was it just she and her mother when other little girls (in those days) had a daddy who came home from work every evening? Why did her mommy have to be gone at work all day till long after her friends had gone home to nice houses with brothers and sisters and a mommy and daddy sitting around the supper table? (That was the custom in those days.) Why did she and her mother spend their nights alone a tiny, stifling hot upstairs apartment on a noisy highway?
But like the doves, she had found a cool, shady spot to get a drink- a drink for her soul. She had noticed her grandmother’s big, black Book with large print. She had heard lovely stories from a Book like that in Sunday School and decided she was old enough to read the Book for herself. She would pick it up each day and open it to the middle, to the part called the Psalms. It was here that she found her own shady pond for her thirsty soul. The ancient poems seemed to come from a heart that ached like hers. She understood the music of the words. It sounded like the song of the doves. The words came from deep within the writer and poured out soft and low, yet often sad and haunting. But in the sadness, there was hope and comfort. This was what the little girl needed… a safe, soul garden. So she read the Psalms one by one slowly, savoring the music and the meaning. One of her favorites went like this:
“I lift up my eyes to the hills.
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
The Maker of heaven and earth.
He who watches over you will not slumber;
The Lord watches over you.
The Lord will watch over your going out and your coming in.
Both now and forevermore.” Psalm 121
The little girl drank in these words and let them satisfy the thirsty, ‘Why?’ in her soul. Knowing God, himself, was looking after her made it easier to get through her daddy-less days. After all, a heavenly Father could take better care of her than any earthly father. Why her father had left, she didn’t know, but now she knew she had a heavenly Father who would not leave. ‘Forevermore’ had a very sweet sound to it!
