She realized her heart was bound to the seed she’d sown in that wild ground. In the labor, joy was found. Sweat-stained, head down, removing what would impede. So many weeds. She digs in again. Bleeding hands and heart. From the start, she has labored over its every growth — uncurling, extending, pruning, and bracing, facing endless seasons and awful good reasons to cease. From stretch marks to blistered hands, she bears the marks of tending the land. She wipes tears mixed with sweat and smiles at the toil — a simultaneous joy and loss. There is a great cost. To love is to labor for the sake of another. A contraction of the heart. An exchange. She is broken so her beloved garden can live. She knows no other way but to surrender her glory for the precious story of another.