Living Homeward While Hemmed In

One summer, as I woke to the sight of my garden, I was reminded of a phrase from Psalm 139: “You hem me in, behind and before” (v. 5).

The Hebrew word for “hem” isn’t exactly comforting; it evokes the image of being under siege, of one who is beset on every side with no escape. I felt the limitations of my circumstances that year as the view from the window seemed to reflect that stifling reality: I could see that our little house and garden were decidedly hemmed in. Bordered by wooden privacy fences on all sides, with a refractory slope that stunted plant growth and made outdoor games hard to play. The space, at times, prompted me to peruse real estate listings that lay beyond our means.

But when the wind whistled softly like a secret keeper in the aspen trees, I looked out and saw the garden for the shelter that it was.

Somehow our yard was the only one on the block to have its own verdant, dappling hedge of trees. The trees weren’t even ours; they belonged to our neighbors, which afforded us more planting space for our garden. I had never even thought to wish for such an arrangement when we were looking at houses, but I couldn’t help reflecting afterward that my Father knew.

He knew that I would have to relearn to inhale and exhale in the protected solace of this garden. He knew that someday I’d laugh to myself over the dramatic yarns my daughters spun as they tromped between vegetables and flowers and back again in their garden boots.

He had hemmed us in, behind, and before, and within those solid wood-planked boundaries, I saw another truth from the Psalms illustrated clearly before me: “The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places” (16:6).

Outside my window, I watched black swallowtail butterflies winging and dipping their way between air- streams, stopping only to flutter madly as they laid batches of eggs on the parsley. At dusk, I saw a hundred cosmos blossoms radiating palely upon their shadowy stems, like constellations of petals suspended in midair. The pleasantness of the place was derived not from specific material things—those were at my Lord’s disposal to give or take away at any time—but from what they signaled about the presence and protection of the Giver. Could the restrictions elsewhere in my life be similar?

I knew that being aware of my limits didn’t mean holding a subdued and cowed posture toward my life or its challenges. Every life has boundaries that should justly be labored against, some that can be embraced, and some that must be grieved.

But perhaps I could also hold the limitations of the present moment without needing to wait for resolution in every area; I could look at the setting I’d been given in which to “work out the salvation that God [had] given [me]” (Phil. 2:12 PHILLIPS)—my background and personal history, my physical condition, the twenty-four hours before me—and be aware that, above all, I was beset on all sides by the One who loved me most. No matter how small or great my space might be in any given season, there was room to do what He had given me to do.

There was even room to contribute to its beauty.

Thank you for reading!

This plan was adapted from This Homeward Ache by author Amy Baik Lee (B&H Publishing, 2023). Click here to learn more or purchase your copy.