A Wise Man Once Told Me

Meagan Heber
Jul 23, 2017 · 4 min read

“But there are so many!” I say the words as I look out over the beds. Hundreds of them, every shape, size, and color — faces I recognize and some that I don’t.

“Yes, but you learn to tend them.” He pulls the Denver Broncos hat off of his brow for a second and wips away a layer of sweat from his forehead.

The sun is beating down over top of us, my girl legs barefoot in the grass and his sneakers wedged in between a patch of lavender and black-eyed susan. Out of his back pocket I can see the gardening gloves dangling.

I pull up bits of the grass as I watch him, carefully and skillfully pruning away dead stems with his fingernails and rooting up weeds with a swift tug from the base.

“Come out front with me, honey. I want to show you something.” I get up and we circle around the yard — there are pink and blue in the planters by the window, huge spreads of white and green and orange along the side of the house, and the soft purple of the lilacs along the back fence, their blossoms smelling up the whole yard.

He lifts up the gate and we cross over to the front yard. The sprinkler is blowing water out softly in the lawn.

This is his favorite part, of course. All along the driveway up to the front porch is a feast of color — white, periwinkle, orange, purple, gold, and red.

“You see that, there?” He points and we get closer. He delicately lifts up a branch with a rose bloom nearly the size of my face, a perfect soft pink. “How beautiful is she!”

I agree with him. “I think that’s my favorite, Grandpa!” Just as I reach for the bloom right beside him, he snatches my hand.

“Careful, baby. All of these ones have some nasty thorns.”

A half inch at least, the whole bush is a pain trap. Anyone not careful could wander in and end up with scratches and welts and anger. I watch as my grandfather puts the bloom back to its resting place and moves through the bed towards the hose faucet.

There are so many of the same bushes, mixed in with the other plants, some with bigger thorns than others.

“Why do roses have thorns?” I ask.

Grandpa turns to look over his shoulder at me. I look at the other flowers and wondered why the most beautiful ones were also the ones that could do some damage.

“They have to protect themselves, or else the birds might just tear them up.” He says, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I wonder what kind of self-respecting bird would ruin such a good thing, such a precious thing.

“Dumb birds.” I kick the dirt a little and he turns off the sprinkler.

He had been out here so long it seemed. The back of his shirt is discolored from the sweat and I hear Mom swing open the screen door from inside the garage — she shouts about lunch. He smiles at me.

“See, honey. There’s a lot of flowers here. Some are tall and strong. Some are small and cover the ground. Some have thorns because they need protecting and some have never been hurt so they don’t bite you too bad.”

I look out over the roses again, the pansies and daisies and Colorado columbines, the dangling woman-in-a-bathtub and the daffodils.

“You tend them all.” I say.

“Yes.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me towards the house. “Some are harder than others. But they all bloom in time. You have to hit some thorns or some barbs sometimes because they do that. But you keep coming back because people are worth it.”

“People?” I am confused.

He chuckles at me and leaves those gardening gloves on the work bench in the garage.

“Did you think that all this time we were just talking about flowers?”


“A man is the sum of his garden”. I like to think that my grandfather instilled this in me, the master gardener that he was.

But the thing is, my grandfather was not just a caretaker of his home, his family, and his land. My grandfather was also a dear friend to many. I have talked to many people who knew him when he was alive and they say the same — he was a kind companion.

That’s not to say this man was perfect. He had a great many faults just like the rest of us. But looking out over his “garden”, I see this is true…a man is a sum of the plants he waters and cares for in his life.

Friendship is perhaps one of the most difficult things and demands so much of us. Not only do friends come and go, break our hearts and then return again, but they also need us to pour into them. Just like a younger me looked out over all the flowers and thought “so many”, I think the same now with my friends.

How does one tend them all?

But this is what I am today, called to. To love the people in my life the best that I can. These people are my feast of color, and I pray this morning that my rose beds be ever growing into unexpected and beautiful places.

Meagan Heber

Written by

Nonprofiteer by day, writer of words by night. Fierce love for mornings, running slow, and the mess in the margins. Heartsupport.com

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