Lady Eleanor Visits the Garden of Time
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Lady Eleanor Visits the Garden of Time
Lady Eleanor awoke in a realm unlike any she had known. The air shimmered with golden light, and the path beneath her feet was woven from threads of moonlight and memory. She stepped forward, her parasol casting a soft shadow on the petals that lined the way.
The garden was alive—not merely with color, but with meaning. Roses leaned toward her, whispering prayers from generations past. She paused to listen, hearing echoes of her own childhood blessings revealed within their folds. Lilies swayed gently, humming lullabies that soothed her soul like a mother’s embrace. Dandelions danced on the breeze, scattering blessings across the sky like confetti from heaven.
Eleanor curtsied to a passing breeze and continued on, her heart stirred by the sacred hush of the place. At the center of the garden stood a figure—an ageless gardener with eyes like twilight and hands that glowed with kindness. He held a golden rake, its tines etched with the names of seasons: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.
“Welcome, Lady Eleanor,” he said, his voice like wind through willow branches. “You’ve come seeking treasure again, haven’t you?”
She nodded, brushing a tear from her cheek. “I thought perhaps time had stolen too much. I hoped to find what was lost.”
The gardener smiled and gestured to the blooms around them. “Time is not a thief, dear one. It is a keeper. Every moment you feared forgotten is planted here, blooming in its own season.”
He led her to a vine of morning glories, each blossom opening to reveal a memory: a child’s laughter, a quiet prayer, a moment of courage. Eleanor gasped softly, recognizing her own life woven into the petals.
As the garden began to fade, Eleanor turned to the gardener one last time. “Will I remember all this when I wake?”
He placed a seed in her palm, warm and glowing. “You won’t remember every detail,” he said, “but your heart will know. Purpose is not always loud—it often blooms in quiet places.”
Eleanor looked around at the roses, lilies, and dandelions, each one holding a piece of her story. She smiled, understanding now that time had not stolen anything—it had been weaving her life into something beautiful.
She awoke in her bed, the seed still nestled in her hand. It shimmered faintly, pulsing with promise. “To every thing there is a season,” she whispered, “and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
And with that, she rose, ready to plant what had been given—to live with intention, and to trust that her purpose was unfolding, petal by petal.
In His Time
(Verse 1)
She walked where roses kissed the air,
A garden bathed in golden prayer,
The seasons whispered soft and low,
“There’s grace in waiting — let it grow.”
(Chorus)
In His time, the morning breaks,
In His time, the sorrow shakes,
Every tear, every climb,
Finds its purpose in His time.
In His time, the seed will rise,
In His time, the heart grows wise,
Though the night may feel too long—
He is writing mercy’s song…
In His time.
(Verse 2)
She touched the petals, worn and torn,
Each one a dream that felt forlorn,
But heaven’s hush began to shine,
And peace bloomed deep in every line.
(Bridge)
Not too early, not too late,
He moves with love, not rush or fate,
The clock may tick, the stars may dim—
But all things rest and rise in Him.
(Chorus)
In His time, the morning breaks,
In His time, the sorrow shakes,
Every tear, every climb,
Finds its purpose in His time.
In His time, the seed will rise,
In His time, the heart grows wise,
Though the night may feel too long—
He is writing mercy’s song…
In His time.
(Outro)
So let the garden bloom and sway,
He holds the hours, He knows the way,
To every purpose, every sign—
We are held… in His time.
Susan Barker Nikitenko © 2025
Ecclesiastes 3:1
"To every thing there
is a season, and a time
to every purpose
under the heaven".
Writer: Abela Randle/SN SNMPBM2 #3b October 4th, 2025©
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