When bare is beautiful

I never knocked. I had a handful of excuses, but none of them were sufficient. The truth is i could have knocked on that battered door, but i didn't. The house round the corner from me has pulled at my heart every time i've passed it. It's garden was so overgrown it stood out like a sore thumb in the street. I've often wondered who lives there and as i pass it i feel a sadness overcome me. I've always imagined it belongs to an old man or lady, who sits there all alone. I don't know who really lives there, if anyone at all, but i've often thought i should knock and find out. Maybe try and sort their garden out for them. Maybe just see if they need any help. Maybe they might just want someone to sit with them. But i've never knocked. I've never helped them. I am ashamed of that. I'm ashamed of the countless times i've walked passed feeling that wave of sadness, a heaviness, a desire to reach out to them, yet never once did i let that turn into action, into real love. 

I walked past there again today to discover the garden was bare. All the tangled mess of plants had been routed up and the land looked new again. My heart actually skipped with relief, with joy. Someone cared. Or maybe it was just the owner. But to me that bare land was beautiful - it sung with hope. There seemed a possibility that something new could grow there now. I guess that's what it's often like with us. The old has to be broken down, rooted up, so that something new and good can grow there without being tangled up in our old mess. But it's not so much the land that really concerns me as the unknown story that is played out inside. The bungalows round here are full of older people. How many of them are alone? How many are just waiting? Waiting for someone to help them. For someone to care. For someone to love them. Maybe it's just my imagination, but somehow i'm sure it's true for at least some of them. They are yesterday's children, yesterday's heros, but today they are just forgotten treasures.