Here at the edge of winter and the beginning of spring, we walked around her yard – she, a master gardener and I, a green thumb wannabe. Like an apprentice under the tutelage of a patient teacher, I paid careful attention to her words. I felt overwhelmed by the beauty and peace I encountered while we walked through her garden. When we met for coffee a couple of weeks prior, I had told her of my plans for my back-yard this spring.
“I would like to grow wildflowers to attract more birds and insects,” I had said.
“You have to come to my place and I show you around and get you started with seeds,” she said seriously and inviting.

Now, here we were.

We walked slowly on stone paths, among dried stalks and arbors covered in leafless grape vines. She had craftily decorated the garden with vintage yard art and hand-painted, wooden birdhouses. Wind chimes hung from the porch and the trees by the house. My friend pointed to the ground, to here and there, explained to me what hid in the soil. Occasionally, she straightened the bent, yellowed reeds of phlox and ferns. I could almost see and smell them. Every so often we spotted a green leaf emerging from under the blanket of dried foliage. It didn’t take long for me to catch her excitement for spring. Her words gave me hope that even I was able to plant some of these things.

Soon, my mind’s eye filled in the missing colors, the deep blue of Sea Holly, the sparkling red of Echinacea, and the bright sun-yellow of Forsythia. I imagined Blueberry Willows, Dogwood shrubs, Black Eyed Susan, and Butterfly Weed in my own corner of the world, saw the birds and heard the insect’s hum.
“I have so many seeds and plants I can share,” she said with an encouraging smile in her eyes. She drove away the last bit of doubt in my abilities to garden.

Toward the end of our walk, we passed the chicken coop which her husband had skillfully crafted – a haven for her free range fowl.
“Would you like some eggs?” she said, as she lifted the hatch to one of the nests.
“Are you kidding? Of course I would,” I said. Part of me was glad to be blessed with the eggs while another part wondered how to carry them.

“Just put them in your coat pocket,” she said with a grin as if she could read my mind. Without hesitation, she placed five small eggs into my cold, cupped hands. The eggs were still warm. I felt overwhelmed with gratitude and hope for the next season and tucked the smooth treasures inside the deep side pockets of my flannel jacket.

Back in the house, she took me to her warm kitchen and showed me how to root willow and other plants in water. The whole time I remembered the weight of responsibility of the cargo in my pocket.

“Come sit for a minute,” she said as she offered me a seat. I couldn’t help but place myself at the edge of the sofa, not to crush the eggs. When I spoke, I hardly moved. I didn’t shift back and forth as I normally do, didn’t feel the need to rush or quickly answer. The eggs kept me still.

Before I started the car to head home, I felt for the eggs while I buckled in. They were still intact. I was hopeful, not only for the future of my own garden, but felt the Lord’s kindness and compassion to me.

He reminded me of His heart for us. He speaks with such tenderness and His Word, not unlike the plants and shoots in my friend’s garden, brings fruit in time. He is full of love toward me. He, the Master Gardener of my soul, shows me how I ought to carry my words, namely like those eggs in my pocket.

I am not always good at this – the way I carry my words nor do I have patience with the things that are still growing. My words can break things, relationships. Yet, Jesus has the power to restore the broken, all that lays dormant, all the things that people could never put back together. He can do it!

I don’t always ride around with eggs in my pocket or with the awareness of how my conversations should be an encouragement.
But I want to – and maybe, just maybe, riding around with eggs in my pocket is not such bad idea after all.