An Over Grown Life

Down a valley and across a field of yellow daffodils, through a dark forest with its tree’s limbs aching and reaching for some unseen force high above all onlookers, on a lone hill sits a house. A home. The bricks old and crumbling away with the dirt of the foundation, the shutters of the windows once adorned with a dark blue trim winding across it’s frame now peeling in strips only to float solemnly to the mossy ground, the carefully and skillfully manicured lawn that had at one point in time had been an owners pride now an overgrown mess of weeds weaving together into a thick moist welcome mat that isn’t so welcoming.

Through the years the house has seen carriages to cars, corsets to tub-tops, loyalty to descent, warmth to cold, happiness to sorrow, smiles to scowls to tears. Cold bitter tears that sting the eye before the action warning the person of what’s to come but can’t be stopped, tears that at times streak down the cheeks of the innocent leaving trails behind that wont simply wash away, or that come out in streams while the person weeps and sobs during the morning of a lost friend. With every tear that has fallen a vine grows an inch more to its impending goal of suffocating the house, with every scream of anguish a thorn grows from the vine, with every broken heart a leaf forms, and with every laugh or smile or warmed heart a sweet smelling flower blooms, a flower called hope.

While most passer-byres would see this house and say that time has not been good to it and cringe in disgust at the great green vines encircling it, a person of wondering will come across it and see that while the vines might scar the house leaving it in a disorderly looking state they only make the house that much stronger. With the thorns the vines bind to the bricks, with the leaves the vines grow from the caught sunlight and water, and with the flowers the vines give beauty to the once pretty house to the now spectacular house. A house that no longer relies on its own strength to stand tall in the face of wild and wicked winds but now gains strength from the vines that gain strength from the sky and the earth, things that don’t disenigrate with age.

Thus while the bricks may crumble and the paint may fade a garden of strength and peace will surface with beauty in spades showing that through the work of man good things can come but with time and God’s hand great things can grow from the sorrow and joy of anyone’s past.