A poem about what God grows in wounded places

This poem beautifully captures the powerful metaphor of two seeds growing beneath the ribs—one nourished by pain and the other planted by God. From personal reflection, I can relate deeply to this imagery because it highlights a universal truth: healing does not erase pain overnight but grows quietly beneath the surface. In my experience, like the poem's gardener, God does not immediately remove our scars. Instead, He tends carefully to the small seeds of mercy and light hidden in the wounded places, gently nourishing them so they can thrive. This process requires patience and faith, as the old pain’s roots can linger for a long time, casting shadows over our present. But with persistent care, those shadowed roots lose their hold as the new growth reaches skyward. What resonates is the idea that grief, wounds, and closed doors are the rain that waters pain’s seed, while God’s love plants a new seed—dormant yet full of possibility. This poem encourages embracing wounds as places of potential spiritual growth. It reminds us that pain does not have the final say; instead, through God’s grace, these places can become gardens of hope and renewal. Many on a faith journey find comfort knowing that even in the darkest times, a light is held in the soil beneath their suffering. The gardening metaphor inspires active trust—allowing for a nurturing presence to work within our brokenness rather than demanding quick fixes. Such insight encourages readers to surrender their pain and watch for the subtle, miraculous shift where what once hurt begins to transform and grow into something beautiful.