Mrs. Margaret’s Garden
MRS. MARGARET’S GARDEN
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made by singing:
“Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade…
– Rudyard Kipling
If you are anything like me, being a creature of habit, most days in your life look much like every other day in your life. Once in a very great while, a very unexpected and purely delightful event happens that causes that day to stand out from all the rest. You will speak of this day on countless occasions for many years to come. As recounted in my journal, one such day for me happened on Tuesday, May 1, 2001.
We lived in Horbury, West Yorkshire, England. The shining sun, a rarity in England, bathed the village in its glorious warmth. I felt rather homesick that day, having left behind all my friends in the States. I had lamented to God only that morning how much I missed my friends and family. I had finished my morning routine and had filled out the required census form. I set out from our house, heading up the road to High Street to mail the form and buy the Daily Mail Newspaper, a daily publication that had become my new obsession.
As I headed home, I met two elderly ladies who were conversing on the sidewalk, their voices rising and falling in a very animated fashion. I politely nodded, intending to walk on, when one of them sort of “drafted” me into their conversation. They were complaining about the small grocery store on the street owned by Pakistanis. They said it “mucked up the landscape with all the adverts posted all around it.”
When I began to speak and they realized I was from America, their voice level rose even higher with delight. I remarked how much different I found the lifestyle to be in England than America and how we had enjoyed living there.
One of them asked, “Have you seen Mrs. Margaret’s garden?”
Well, I neither knew Mrs. Margaret nor had I seen her garden. When I replied, “No, I haven’t,” she responded with such excitement, “Well, you absolutely must come and see Mrs. Margaret’s garden.” Little did I know the lady quietly listening while standing with us was none other than the famous Mrs. Margaret, and she politely invited me to see her garden.
We walked down the road past a line of row houses, each one like the next, until we arrived almost to the end of the street before it curved into another. Mrs. Margaret’s house, a small, unassuming English cottage with a front yard so small one could practically trim it with scissors, stood at the end of the street. I had a hard time imagining what I had come to see. But as we turned the corner around the garage to the backyard, my mouth flew open in amazement. What my eyes beheld is so very difficult to describe. Indeed, the garden was the most incredible display of horticultural mastery I had ever seen. My eyes gazed at Mrs. Margaret, now beaming with pride at her accomplishment.
There in that unassuming place was a masterful display of pure grace and charm. With so much to see, my eyes had difficulty taking it all in. In every part of Mrs. Margaret’s garden were planted flowers in complementary colors that accentuated the next variety. I spotted a mixture of ornamental plants and flowers in an informal design yet looking very much intentional. She had hollyhocks, carnations, sweet Williams, marigolds, lilies, peonies, tulips, crocus, daisies, foxglove, lavender, Solomon’s seal, evening primrose—you name it, they were there. She had given much thought to her planting so that at any given time of year, something bloomed in every part of her garden. More than the splendid display of flowers caught my eye. All around her garden were walkways dotted with paver stones, decorative birdbaths, rock gardens, and water fountains that sent the gentle music of water spilling over rocks to my ears. Occasionally along the walkway, a bench nestled in an archway of creeping vines, creating a place to sit and ponder the stuff of life.
Mrs. Margaret, very pleased with my captivation of her garden, invited me back anytime to see it. A few days later I showed up with my husband to see it. He became as enchanted in her garden as I had become. When friends would come from America to see us, we always took them to see Mrs. Margaret’s garden. Many took pictures, some videos, and all shared the beauty of Mrs. Margaret’s garden with those back home.
If you ever find yourself in Horbury, West Yorkshire, England, take a left off High Street onto Jenkin Road. Go to the end past the row houses, and you will find a shining gem hidden behind a small, unassuming English cottage. Tell Mrs. Margaret, “Your friend from America sent you.”
If you never make it to see Mrs. Margaret’s garden in England, you may have to wait until you get to Heaven. I am quite sure if you inquire where her mansion is, you will find an even more spectacular garden there with flowers and colors of unspeakable beauty designed by the Master Gardener Himself.
Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these (Luke 12:27 KJV).
