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    I cleaned out my flowerbed this morning. As I cleaned away the dead leaves left over from fall and saw the green hopes of spring slowly being uncovered, I felt fewer and fewer of the little drops of rain that fell on me. The wind played a song in my ear. I listened to it's music and watched as it touced the leaves; making them dance gently to the tune. I was enamored by the thrill I got as each inch of green was revealed. And I became intoxicated by the robust smells of the dirt and nature.
    The sun sleepily peeked around the little blankets of gray that had covered it. And in its reflection I could clearly see the brilliance of the day that surrounded me. An orchestra of birds began to play a symphony. Their music told of the dramatic struggles of winter and the joyful hope for spring.
    Eventually, the flowerbed was free from its brown jail. And I stood back and looked at what my efforts had liberated.
I saw not my work, but the work of Someone greater than me. I saw the masterpiece as the Painter meant for it to be seen. The penetration of green and blue, pink and white, gray and orange, blended perfectly; painted not on a canvas of
cloth, but on one of brown dirt with Life flowing in every grain; not with paints of oil or water, but with the color of Life flowing in the veins of the plants.
    I had done more than clean out my flowerbeds. I had watched a Painter paint a masterpiece. I had listened to an orchestra directed by the Maestro, and I had feasted on a meal from the Great Chef.

By: Stephanie Stephens
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