A PICNIC TABLE AND TWO BOARDS

The footbridge to the other side was gone.

Poppy and I took our grandsons to Tyrone Sunken Garden in Fenton this morning. It’s a little known quarry garden behind Tyrone Memorial Garden cemetery. It is the cemetery where my husband’s brother, sister and parents are buried and the cemetery where we will one day rest.

It had been awhile since I last visited and I was saddened to find it in such disarray. The foot bridge that once crossed the babbling brook was gone and the only way to cross to the other side was to balance on a few wooden planks that had been placed atop a picnic table bridge. It was a bit precarious, but we managed to cross over.

The East side entrance to the sunken garden.

When we reached the other side we were greeted with a path of trampled weeds and mucky soil; probably why it’s named sunken garden. The muddy mess that oozed up between my toes and covered the tops of my grandson’s sneakers didn’t detour us. The curiosity of the grandkids kicked into high gear; they were on an unplanned adventure and diggin’ it (this is where you interject a round of applause for Neenee because it was my idea to explore this place).

The main area of the wagon wheel shaped garden was mowed, but most of the quarry stones that encircled the property were hidden beneath overgrown weeds and gnarly branches. It lent a mysterious appeal to the wooded surroundings that further intrigued my eleven-year old grandson.

The West side entrance to the sunken garden.

As our shoes trenched through the beaten foot paths, we explored the engraved stones of the garden. To the East and West, granite pillars stand guard over the circular arena and the engraved quotes on the face of these gateways indicated the builder embraced wisdom and knowledge.

After 30 minutes in the garden we headed up the slippery incline to our parked vehicle. As we walked, we stopped to pick up beer cans and trash left behind by under-age weekend drinkers. Sadness encased my heart at the lack of respect shown to this special garden and the inspiration that was birthed in the heart of its founder who labored to make it a reality.

Grandson, Carson, sitting in the center of the garden.

I wonder if God ever feels that way about humanity. He gave birth to salvation by sending His son, Jesus, to die on the cross. He labors to guide our heart into His garden of eternal life. Yet, many trash and trample upon God’s gift of grace; they willfully scribble graffiti upon the rock of their salvation.

The founder of the garden twice traveled the world. He had the distance from the garden to places he had traveled cut into the quarried stone. — The founder of the garden traveled twice around the world. He had the distance from the sunken garden to places he visited cut into the quarried stone.

And so, after my visit to this longstanding, little known, garden with my grandsons, I presented to them a life lesson (as I am known to do). The short of it: don’t expect everyone to embrace or show respect for what is important to you. The long of it: be diligent and labor to fulfill your dream regardless of the obstacles.

There will always be people who will make an effort to trample down, trash and squash our dreams. It is up to us to find a way to cross over the deep waters and fulfill the spiritual desires of our heart; even if it means using a broken down picnic table and wooden planks to get to where God wants us to be.