// Anna Boehk //

This is my prayer of surrender.

I went out several days ago and bought plants – cheery ones, tall ones, already blooming. I tutted over the different choices. Which colors do I want? Which would grow well together? Do I get enough sun in my little corner of the world for this flower? 

I spent time sweeping my porch. I rinsed out the hummingbird feeder and filled it, hung it. It’s for the bees, really, but I feel that I’ve done my part to take care of another living thing. We are all working together to stay alive. 

I planted my flowers. Something about the smell of dirt, the feel of it. The tension in my right arm as I dig and haul and shuffle around.

And while I planted and pruned, I allowed myself to think. I mulled over whatever came to mind, let my mind wander. My hands worked on their own – they have planted enough flowers and herbs to take initiative without upper management telling them how. I allowed myself to think, to breathe, to pray, to believe. But importantly, I allowed myself to work. To be united in that Creative Spirit that brings life to the earth with or without my help.

And this is my prayer of surrender!

From the fear of being let down by my government, my leaders, the neighbors, my friends.

Deliver me, Lord.

From the fear of letting them down.

Deliver me, Lord.

From the fear of the “different” that I know is coming. What if it’s too different?

Deliver me, Lord.

And from the fear of it not being different enough. Deliver us.

And as I planted, I allowed myself to breathe. The dirt, the atmosphere, the breeze. The sneezy pollen, yesterday’s rain. The flowers, the freshness, the newness. 

Have you ever noticed the way your body responds to earth? Like it knows where it came from. Dusty walks, splashy puddles. Digging for shells, catching fireflies. Planting a seed and hoping you are around for the bloom. If not you, maybe your children. Running water, the smell of moss. The impossible green after a rain. Like your body knows where it came from and where it is going to end.

I was recently honored to discuss the healing benefits of nature with a woman who teaches gardening to war veterans struggling with PTSD. She told us that not only does the body respond to earth, but it changes with it. It improves mood. It reduces stress. It improves sleep, stability, fascination, meditation, medication, mood, and what she called “the Getting Away.”

I’ve been trying to go outside every day. I’m directionless, except to surrender to – to something. 

From the fear of going mad, slowly, without purpose, here in my home that used to be my refuge.

Deliver me, Lord.

From the fear of being kept awake, groping in the dark for some quiet – not around us but inside us.

Deliver me, Lord.

From the fear of not doing enough right now. Of doing too much right now.

Deliver me, Lord.

I finished my work. The flowers were planted and watered. My railings wiped down, the gloves put out to dry in the sun. Glass was polished. All that’s left to do is surrender. The rain will come when it does, and I can’t stop it. The sun decides when to peek around and how strongly it will say hello. The birds have minds of their own, to say nothing of the wind and the cold. All I can do is my best to cooperate. All that’s left to do is surrender.

And this garden is my own prayer of surrender.

From a life without union with You.

Deliver us.