A boy named Steve was walking along a familiar street in his home town when he noticed a high wall on the other side of the street. He’d seen the wall before but hadn’t thought about what was behind it. Now he noticed that the gate in the center of the wall was open, and when he crossed the street and looked inside, he was amazed to find that it led to a garden so beautiful that it took his breath away.
There, before his eyes, shown a riot of gorgeous colors—harmonious rows of rare and exquisite flowers, blossoming bushes and shrubs, and trees heavily laden with colorful and delicious fruits. Neat paths wound their way in and out among the flowers and trees of the garden.
Steve stood in open-mouthed wonder, gazing at the marvelous beauty revealed through the open gate. How often had he passed by this gate before, without the slightest idea that anything so wonderful existed there!
His eye followed down the winding path, and he saw a suggestion of some building in the distance. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he took a step or two forward to see what was there in the center part of the garden. Grayish brown shingles showed through the boughs of the trees forming part of what seemed to be a log cabin nestled in between soft, green pines and hemlocks.
“Hello son!” Steve was suddenly startled by a man speaking softly. “Do you like my garden?”
Whirling around, Steve looked toward the man. Why yes, sir!” gasped Steve, “It- it’s the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen in my life!”
“Then won’t you please come right in?” replied the man with a little laugh. “I’m glad you like my garden, and I’d like to show it all to you.”
Cautiously, Steve stepped forward and found himself in the midst of beauty such as he had never seen, even much more beautiful, in fact, than he had imagined as he stood in the street peering through the gate.
There were flowers and fruits such as he had never seen before, imported from foreign lands. He could see that everything was cared for by the skilled and loving hand of a Master-gardener—evidently the owner himself who was now showing him the garden.
Steve soon noticed one remarkable fact—the high wall enclosed a full acre of rich and fertile land, yet all the beauty that he had seen occupied only a tiny portion of the enclosed area. The great expanse of the enclosure lay clean and bare, ready to be cultivated.
He was puzzled by this and intended later to ask the man about it.
Steve came to the center of the garden where, in the midst the softly swaying evergreens, a grayish-brown log cabin came into full view. On closer observation Steve saw that there seemed to be two buildings—a very small house with a broad, shady, flagstone terrace stretching across the front of it, and beyond the house a large barn-like structure built right next to it.
As he walked around, Steve was surprised to see that the “barn” had no doors. It was built right on to the shingled cottage.
“How do you get into that?” Steve asked.
“Come around to the front of the house and I’ll show you,” returned the gardener.
The terrace, Steve discovered, was furnished with a large rocking chair and a long, low couch. A hammock swung between two posts. It seemed a most inviting place to rest. In the front of the house, approached from the terrace by two descending steps, there appeared a curious little door, so low that anyone would have to stoop down or kneel to go through it.
“The little door,” explained the owner of the garden, “is the only entrance to this cottage and to the great storehouse.”
“But what does the big storehouse have in it?” asked Steve, filled with curiosity.
“That, son, is the storehouse that contains everything necessary for the completion of the garden.” Steve turned and saw the great expanse of rich uncultivated soil—the uncompleted part of the garden.
Steve looked in wide-eyed wonder at all the beauties of the garden. He wanted to take it all in, for he didn’t know whether he would have another chance to come into the enchanting garden.
The owner of the garden broke into Steve’s reverie. “You like the garden, don’t you son?”
“Sir, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—I certainly do thank you for letting me come in to see it.”
“I need a young man like you to care for the garden and to cultivate it until it is all complete—the whole garden—just as this part here by the gate.” The gardener then turned very soft and gentle. “Would you like to do that?”
“I certainly would, sir!” was Steve’s enthusiastic reply. His eyes fairly shown with joy at the wonderful prospect.
Steve walked through the garden and listened to the gardener explain about the work that needed to be done and how to do it. Then the owner of the garden told Steve the secret to the garden’s beauty, “Today I leave the garden with you, son, care for it with all your heart and strength, but just inside that little low door is a telephone with a direct line to me. Every morning before you begin to work, and all during the day, whenever you need help, you call me up, and I will guide you as you search the storehouse for all the things you need.”
With these words the gardener left, leaving Steve amid the flowers and fruit.
That afternoon, the excitement of exploring every little path and byway of the garden and of tasting each of the delicious fruits occupied Steve until sundown. As it began to get dark, he sat on the terrace, listening to the gentle evening sounds—crickets strumming miniature banjos, drowsy warblers settling minor arguments before going to bed, owls starting up exceptional hoots—and then Steve was asleep.
Bright dancing sunbeams shot through the pine boughs to waken Steve. He jumped up with a start, grabbing a shovel that he found on the terrace and hurrying out to begin his work in the garden. To his surprise and disappointment the soil that had appeared so soft and fertile seemed hard and difficult to work. He went to it with a will, however. After an hour or so, he had worked up a sweat, and yet he didn’t seem to have made much progress. He kept trying, and it seemed to go much harder.
As the sun reached the top of its climb that day, and its fierce heat beat down on Steve’s head, the boy stopped to mop his forehead and to view the results of his morning’s work—a small bed of poorly turned soil.
“Hello there, fella!” Suddenly Steve heard a voice from somewhere near him.
He looked around startled. At last he located the source of the voice—a man with a leather briefcase, sitting, of all places, on top of the garden wall! He appeared to be a salesman.
“You certainly are working hard, young man,” said the salesman, as he climbed down inside the garden. “And it really isn’t necessary you know.”
He approached the boy and opened his briefcase. “Let me show you just the thing you need.” He held up an envelope with a colored picture printed on it. “Here, my boy, you have a wholly new and wonderful type of seed. You don’t need to do any hard work preparing the soil—just scatter the seed, and in three days you will see little green shoots. Very soon you will be eating of this beautiful and delicious fruit-”
“But, no sir,” Steve finally managed to counter. “I don’t need to buy any seed. Everything I need is here in the storehouse.”
“Ha!” replied the salesman. “Once you’ve tried this seed, you’ll not want any other kind. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to give you a free sample. Just try it out.” He thrust the envelope into Steve’s hand.
The boy began to protest again but became intrigued by the picture on the envelope, as it showed a luxuriant vine with curious fruit of varying brilliant colors. Then he looked up to give it back to the salesman, but the salesman had disappeared!
Curious to know how this free sample seed would grow, Steve went back to the furthest corner of the enclosure, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his heart, and quickly opened the envelope, pouring the contents out on the ground. The seed was as fine as powder, and as he poured it out, the breeze caught it and spread it around a larger area than he had planned. He stood for a moment looking at the seed, then turned and walked slowly back to the terrace. There he stretched out on the couch.
The next day began much the same—but the work went even harder, and at the end of each day it seemed to Steve that he had less to show for his labor.
Each day, also, he found himself irresistibly drawn to the back corner of the garden. He was amazed at how soon the tiny green shoots appeared, where the seed had been sown and blown. In a few weeks’ time there was a green tangled vine spreading all over the surface of the ground, climbing the walls and even reaching out toward the flowers and fruit trees in the beautiful part of the garden.
Then one day he noticed tiny, round, red and yellow berries. Eagerly he seized a handful and popped them into his mouth.
“Ugh!”—A look of consternation crossed Steve’s face, and he quickly spit out the fruit. The fruit was bitter with a bitterness different from anything he had ever tasted. When he had spit out the fruit, there remained a strangely sweet aftertaste. Steve was intrigued, and somehow despite the bitterness, he couldn’t resist the urge to taste it again. This time he slipped a tiny yellow berry between his lips. The berry tasted exotically sweet—different from anything he had ever tasted. Another berry followed, then another.
As he walked back toward the beautifully planted garden, Steve saw a great pear tree laden with ripe, luscious fruit. He picked a pear and began to eat it, but was astonished that it seemed insipid and tasteless to him. He tried apples, plums, and grapes, but none seemed to have any taste.
Frantically he rushed from tree to tree, tasting all the fruit of the garden. All were tasteless. Retiring to the terrace, Steve felt a heavy sadness come over him. Something had taken away all the pleasure he derived from the good fruit of the garden.
The next day and each succeeding day Steve would find himself running first to the back corner of the garden, watching the amazing growth of the strange vine he had planted and eating the bitter fruit—that seemed to taste sweeter each day.
He hardly noticed that day by day the beautiful fragrant flowers and blossoming shrubs were fading from neglect. Daily the vine grew until it overran first a part, then bit by bit, the whole garden. It blocked the gate and even closed in around the pines and hemlocks that circled the log cottage.
The day came, however, when Steve woke up to the fact that the delightful beauty of the garden was faded. The great rampant weed had invaded the flowered cloisters of fragrance and had choked the delicate color and perfume that had so spellbound Steve the day he had first found the garden.
He remembered with remorse the owner’s words,“Today I leave the garden with you, son—care for it with all your heart and strength.”
Steve was heartbroken. How miserably he had failed! What could he do? Then suddenly he remembered with a shock that he had forgotten completely the rest of the owner’s counsel, “Just inside the little door is a telephone—”
The telephone!—And the storehouse! How could he have forgotten? He looked frantically for the little door, but it was entirely covered by the leaves of the rampant weed. However, he had an idea of the general location of it, and he hurried toward it.
Suddenly he heard a voice behind him, “Hey there, young fella, where are you going in such a hurry?”
He turned to see the grinning face of the salesman. “Why, I’m going to get help to get rid of this terrible, ugly vine that’s ruining the garden,” explained Steve, almost sobbing.
“Terrible? Ugly?” queried the man in seeming wonderment. “But why do you say that? Hasn’t it grown well? Don’t you like the fruit?”
“Well, yes,” Steve admitted. “It has grown amazingly, and I do—that is, I’ve come to like the fruit.”
“Of course,” rejoined the salesman, “and you must agree that this green foliage is beautiful to behold.”
As Steve talked with this man, his fears of the morning seemed to melt, and the vine’s foliage seemed less ugly, just as the fruit had become less bitter. So it was that the great rampart weed continued to destroy the once beautiful garden.
Another day came when in the clear light of the early morning, Steve saw the garden as it was—a shambles, ruined by his disobedience to the owner.
Again he looked for the tiny door that led to help. He caught sight of the door and was hurrying toward it when again he heard the now familiar voice of the seed salesman.
This time, however, Steve kept hurrying toward the little door and refused to turn and look at the salesman. The door was so low that even by stooping down he could not enter. He had to fall on his knees and lower his head. Then he could go through the door.
As Steve lifted the telephone receiver, a tender voice answered immediately,“Hello, son, you need help, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” cried Steve, in heartbroken agony, “I have failed you miserably! I have neglected this wonderful garden and let it fade—I have planted strange seed—the garden is ruined!” Somehow Steve felt an indescribable peace when he had unburdened his heart.
“What do you want me to do?” the gardener came back over the wire.
“Oh, sir, help me! Save me from the terrible damage I’ve done to this garden.” Somehow Steve felt sure that the owner of the garden could solve his problems completely.
“There is only one way, son,” came the kind gardener again, “to get rid of the strange vine. There is only one person who can do it—my own Son.”
“Oh, sir,” cried Steve eagerly, “please, may he come to help me?”
The Son of the garden’s owner—his only Son—met Steve at the little door. His Son, who looked into his heart with a look of love and said, “Steve, what can I do for you?”
“Please sir,” answered Steve, “would you get rid of this weed. I can’t do it. I don’t know what to do to get rid of it.”
“I can do it,” said the owner’s Son, “and I will if you want me to.”
“Please sir, please do!”
Steve watched as the owner’s Son went to the very place Steve had planted the seed. He reached down and grabbed the weed by the trunk—which was very large by now and had very sharp thorns—and He pulled it up by the roots and gathered it all together without regard to the sharp, hidden thorns that it bore, and threw it over the garden wall. As he came from the work, Steve saw that the thorns had wounded him severely in the hands and feet and in the head and in the side. As he saw the blood of this Man, the boy knew that it was flowing because he, Steve, had disobeyed.
The man who had cleared out the old weed spoke to him before He left him in the garden, “Never start a day without spending some time on the telephone and in the storehouse. That way my Father and I will always be with you.”
The garden was empty and bare as Steve viewed it that day. His heart was sore as he realized how all the former beauty had been wasted, but he felt still more profound contentment when he thought of how the old weed was gone from the garden.
The next day, before he went to work, Steve went to the telephone—then into the storehouse. There he found refreshing food for his own strengthening, wonderful seed for planting in the garden, and tools for his work.
How different was the work that day! Steve thought he had accomplished more in that morning of work than in all the days put together since he had come into the garden. Throughout the afternoon and in the following days, Steve worked harder than he had ever worked in his life. He sang as he worked, and his joy knew no bounds.
Each morning he would go through the little door to the telephone and would get instructions and counsel. From the treasure storehouse, he would get seed and all that he needed for each day’s work.
So great was Steve’s enthusiasm as he saw the garden begin to bloom again, that he would work late and early. One night after dark he stumbled into the porch tired and happy, leaned his shovel against the railing, and fell into the hammock. In a moment he was in dreamland.
The next morning, when Steve woke to the singing of the birds, he was startled to realize that the sun was already high above the horizon. He jumped out of the hammock, grabbed the shovel, and hastened out to the part of the garden in which he had been working the night before.
He set to work with his usual fervor but was surprised to find that the soft, fertile earth no longer yielded to his efforts. He lifted the shovel, and then almost cried as he saw the beautiful rose bush that he had been carefully cherishing fall to the ground, cut off by a careless stroke of the shovel.
Suddenly, amid his frustration Steve heard a voice that sounded with odd, through familiar, discord, “My, but you’re working hard,” said the salesman from atop the wall.
Steve took one look. In an instant there came over him with a shock the realization of what had happened. He hurled the shovel at the man with all his might and turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him toward the little door.
Day after day the struggle continued just that way. Whenever he spent time at the telephone and in the storehouse, his work progressed, but always there was something inside of Steve that made him want to skip the little door. Sometimes he even felt a craving for the old fruit—but this was only when he had failed to go through the little door.
Days turned into years, and Steve’s joy in the development of the garden was greater and deeper as time went by. Gradually, as he matured, he learned more and more of obedience and faithfulness.
Then came the day, after many years, when Steve rejoiced to view the very last corner of the garden planted, cultivated, and luxuriant in full bloom. And that very same day something happened that never happened since the day Steve had come to the garden.
The telephone rang. Steve went through the little door, answered the telephone, and heard the voice of the owner of the garden, “You have done well, my son, and you have been faithful. Now come and serve me in my own house forever.”