God, I Trust the Garden You’re Growing

A meditation for parents of children who don't fit into the mold

God, I come to You tired. Not from lack of love— but from pouring it out, over and over, into seeds I can’t yet see the fruit of.

You know the garden I planted this year. You saw the seeds I saved by hand— chosen from last summer’s joy. You watched me buy the lights, prepare the soil, water them with care and hope, envisioning a bountiful garden.

And You saw what came—or didn’t. How spring arrived, and I had nothing showy to display, just small sprouts with tiny leaves. while others’ had blooms, and blossoms, and glory.

How I walked into that nursery and saw towering plants—fruiting and thriving—and how something in me wilted.

Lord, that feeling still stings— That haunting voice that whispers I’ve done something wrong. That I’m not enough. That maybe everyone else knows how to grow things better than I do.

But You’ve stayed beside me. You didn’t scold me for the slow growth. You kept whispering: “Keep planting.”

So I did.

I planted what I had. Even the volunteers– The surprise sprouts I didn’t remember sowing. Even the ones that looked too small, too late, too behind.

And now—suddenly—I see what You’ve been doing.

These plants–my plants… they’re upright. They’re symmetrical. They’re strong.

They don’t sprawl or collapse. They don’t need cages to prop them up. They reach toward the sky with dignity— rooted in something deep and invisible, standing tall.

God, You are doing the same with my children.

 Sometimes all I see are the delays, the differences, the doubts. Sometimes I feel embarrassed, like I’m behind everyone else, like I’m failing them— Like I’m a failure.

Lord, today I want to stop that.  Today I know you are creating in me a renewed heart with an unwavering confidence in the quiet work that is producing something different– Something durable!

Please touch me with Your peace and remind me all day long that You are not growing them for fast results. You are growing them for fruit that lasts.

You are not interested in hollow milestones. You are forming souls. You are cultivating in them strength and stability, even if today it’s looking pretty questionable.

You’re even using these very struggles— the ones that make me feel isolated and exhausted— to shape something extraordinary in them. Something that couldn’t be forced or faked.

Something only You could cultivate in this soil.

I know this journey feels harder because we’re building deeper. I know that the challenges I face aren’t signs of failure— they’re evidence of the kind of strength You’re cultivating here.

And God, I see it now— You made me for this.

You wired me for the deep end of life. You gave me the vision to see what’s broken, the courage to name what others avoid, and the strength to stand alone when no one else will.

I’ve spent years feeling like the only one— the only one asking the question, the only one pushing back, the only one willing to look truth in the face.

But now I understand: That wasn’t a flaw. It was preparation.

I love that You made me like this.

I love that I feel things deeply. That I ask questions other people avoid. That I won't settle for surface answers. That I carry a fierce kind of loyalty and fire even when it’s misunderstood.

God, grab me by the shoulder, moment by moment, with Your beautiful truth and say,“LOOK!  Remember the lice! (from Corrie Tin Boom’s story) You’re crying with uncertainty now, but these struggles are PURPOSEFUL!  I’m growing something in them that could never be rushed or replicated!”

God, I want to see it Your way.

Like Psalm 119:5 says— I wish I could keep my heart fixed on Your ways all the time. I want to constantly remember:

This slowness is sacred. This difficulty is deliberate.I’m not doing it wrong; I’m doing it with You.

I breathe again now. And I rest in the truth: You are not ashamed of my garden. You are not disappointed in my motherhood. You’re here in the dirt with me. You know how much love I’ve poured into this soil.

Help me remember, when I’m tempted to compare, that You’re writing a different story with us.

The early fruit others flaunt?It looks strong,but I know what quick fixes and forced growth can cost.

I want what’s real. What lasts. What’s grown in truth and grace and time.

And that’s exactly what we’re building together.

You are not ashamed of my process. You delight in my questions,  You honor my willingness to do the hard things, to trod off the beaten path.

You love that about me.

I trust You. I trust what You’re growing in my children. And I trust what You’re growing in me.

I know we’re going to see fruit. Not just any fruit—but strong, nourishing, enduring fruit that blesses more than just our family.

I know I was made for this work. Hand-picked for these children. Uniquely equipped for this path. And I refuse to compare anymore.

Today, I will bless the slow.I will honor and give thanks for the challenges. Help me stand tall like the very plants I’ve grown.

Because You are the Gardener. And I am Yours. And so are they.

Let Your peace settle over me like soft rain. Let Your presence warm me like spring sun. And let me rise tomorrow with joy in the waiting— and hope in the harvest to come.

Amen.