I grew up in the county of Worcestershire, England. Situated south of Birmingham, Worcestershire is a pretty county of undulating hills and farmland. Wandering down narrow lanes you easily find hidden villages of timbered cottages with thick thatch. Ancient churches and abbeys lie scattered across the county while an impressive cathedral overlooks the banks of the River Severn.

It is a picturesque county but my overwhelming memories are much more down to earth. As a child I remember spending time in other people’s gardens. My parents came to gardening late in their lives but we lived in a small town where gardeners, and their gardens, thrived.

Memories of walking down red-bricked paths to warm greenhouses fragrant with loam and humus, brimming with beefy tomatoes are surprisingly close. In my mind’s eye I see neat rows of onions, standing tall like soldiers, while radishes poke their peppery red jackets above the earth.

I remember a frail elderly couple, who had no children, and their pocket-sized scrap of land filled with fruit trees and bushes. Nurtured and fed over the years those trees reached summer’s end eager to lighten their ripened load.

And then there were friends who crowded their borders with flowers of every colour and variety that released sweet perfume as dusk fell. Heavenly roses, night-scented stock and lavender bushes, breaching the path, left their herby fragrance clinging to your clothes. I love gardens.

I always wanted to cultivate one, but up until now there hasn’t really been the opportunity. Living on the edge of Ulaanbaatar we have a patch of ground on which we could do something but, so far, there hasn’t been time. This summer we’ve hardly cut the grass let alone thought about planting a tree.

Bemoaning this loss, I told God I didn’t think it was fair. (You’d have thought I’d have learned by now that life isn’t always fair.) Nevertheless, in my gloom God extended His grace as the faces of friends, unbidden, started coming to my mind. A long-term gossip, who now speaks words of encouragement, has become an inspiration to many. Another, rescued from dark years of alcoholism, is helping others find freedom.

Nara, shy and retiring, with shutters like leaves that fold inwards when she feels threatened, has taken a woman, crushed by abuse, into her home. Undisturbed, Nara works in her shady spot, encouraging this frail one towards God and His healing.

Older friends, mature and strong in faith, travel to restricted areas to share the good news of Jesus. Like a strong oak they nourish young churches and watch Christians, under God’s protection, grow stronger. And Tavan living in a place where beauty is fading and austerity is the order of the day allows her gentle heart and bright spirit to strengthen the lives of those touched by anguish. 

And so the list of friends, whose changing lives are bringing joy and happiness to others, goes on. I sigh. I still dream of cultivating my own English garden — I’d love to plant borders brimming with flowers and fill tiny furrows with seeds but perhaps this dream must wait for another season of my life.  In the meantime I’m content to watch others grow and blossom.