I went out to the backyard to finally tend the little garden I had been putting off for so long. I should have taken care of it and thinned things out much earlier, but I kept missing the right moment. When I finally stepped outside, I found lettuce, perilla leaves, strawberries, cucumbers, and squash all tangled together, each struggling desperately to grow. Perilla leaves were sprouting between the slender blades of chives, and the strawberries—having stretched their runners tirelessly even through winter—had already claimed nearly every patch of soil, waving their green flags triumphantly. Everything was so intertwined that it was impossible to tell what was what.

Here and there, acorns that had fallen from the trees last autumn had quietly taken root and were now confidently claiming their own spaces. This tiny piece of land was overflowing with disorder and confusion. Even while I excused myself for being too busy to make time, the earth had been working tirelessly, nurturing life—both the things I planted and the things I never planted—each racing to grow.

With a mix of guilt and excitement, I picked up my small trowel and began clearing the garden one plant at a time. The young roots of the oak seedlings were stubborn and would not come out easily, but I couldn’t leave them there. The strawberry vines, which had multiplied the most vigorously, were pulled out or moved to empty soil. I cut down and cleared away the thistles and weeds without hesitation, giving the garden some breathing room.

The water celery, which had survived for years with nothing but enough moisture to stay yellow and barely alive, was moved into several water containers. After filling them generously with water, the celery lifted its leaves toward the sky as if nodding gratefully. Seeing even these silent plants respond with gratitude to a little care and attention made me realize how insensitive and inattentive I often am toward people. Their withered, yellowed lives—like neglected leaves—felt suddenly like my responsibility. As raindrops fell between the revived celery leaves, forming round ripples, it seemed as though little green frogs might pop their heads out at any moment and croak with joy.

After spending half the day bent over, sweating, and letting the soil stain my hands, the once-chaotic garden finally settled into a clear, orderly shape. As I looked over the garden, I thought, If I don’t tend to my soul even for a little while, won’t it end up just like this? And I began to reflect on the garden of my own spirit.

It is strange. Just as unplanted weeds grow thick on their own, worldly things take root in the soil of the soul even without being sown. Seeds of pride, judgment, anger, and greed sprout instantly and spread until they cover everything. But the seeds of sincere, sanctified faith take great effort to root and push up a tender shoot. When the sprout first appears, it may not look like much, but one day—when it finally blooms—its beauty and fragrance captivate everyone. That beauty and fragrance endure across generations.

Pulling weeds and tending the garden—this is the secret to emptying the heart and nurturing faith. If we do not examine ourselves daily when the weeds of the heart begin to sprout one by one, the seeds of faith grow weak and sickly. Before we know it, the vines of compromise creep in and cover the field of the heart. To grow even a single tree of faith, the soil of the spirit must be governed by the Word, and we must sweat in prayer. This unceasing spiritual labor is not easy, for it requires resisting the comfort of the flesh.7/18/1996

A garden where birds sing, breezes blow, the scent of soil rises, and living things ripple with life is a place where God dwells—so it brings joy and delight to the heart. As I tended and watched over the vegetables, strength returned to my weary soul. The garden of the soul is a precious place that must be cultivated with time and devotion. We must stay awake to discern whether what is growing there is useful or whether it is weeds that weaken and exhaust the spirit. A garden where humility, love, joy, gratitude, praise, and worship grow in order and beauty becomes a resting place for the soul.

After pulling the weeds from the garden, my heart felt refreshed and light. Lifting the trowel of the Word and prayer, I turn to the weeds of vanity and worldly attachment growing in the garden of my soul.

— WanHee Yoon, 7/18/1996