A Humble Man

He was a humble man, an old man. By day, he tended to his garden, and by night, he read his bible. He had no kids, and he had no friends besides his flowers and the animals around him. He didn’t kill, he didn’t steal, he didn’t commit perjury and he never thought of adultery. All there was was a house, a simple one roomed house.

In it was his simple possessions–his small metal stove, his rocking chair, his quaint matt for a bed, his pot, his satchel, his shovel, his watering can, his soap, and his bible. There was nothing more to this life, not really. He had no wife, he had no kids. All that were was him, the animals and his garden. Just a small house, not a hut, surrounded by the vast expanse of evergreen trees and ferns, and in the distance, beset by a slumbering range of snow capped mountains. 

In the mornings, after he had dressed, he made himself a breakfast of meal and parsnips, topped with a cup of stream water. Then he read the Word, then he sat outside and watched the sunrise, then he contemplated life and its many ins and outs, its many valleys and hills. Then, slowly he stood up, grabbed his trowel off its hook on the wall, and walked the five or so steps to his garden, where he tended to his flowers and his food. They were nothing special, mind you, simple beetroot and daisies and the occasional delphinium or aster. Just anything he could find in the surrounding area. After he had finished with the watering, the debugging and the digging he sat once more in his chair, contemplating all that was and all that will be. And when he had done this, he went once again to his abode and grabbed his satchel from a hook, which he then proceeded to fill with all manner of root and, of course, his bible, which he tenderly took from its place on a shelf and laid with care in its proper position. With all these, he set out, away to some place he had not seen before. He always knew where he was, and he was never afraid of any of beasts that roamed that area, for they were his friends. The rain, he encountered with delight, and the frost with relief, the straining sun with joy, and the winds? Well they were his brothers. 

Up the mountain he walked, never too fast, until he found a nice rock or a pleasant tree which would be his seat for the hour. He carefully opened his satchel, and with the same care removed his holy book from it. The ribbon he took gentle hold of, and in all good time he had opened the leather and arrived at his place. Today he read a verse from Amos, as solemnly and carefully as if he was its author.

He who made the Pleiades and Orion and

changes deep darkness into morning, 

who also darkens day into night, 

who calls for the waters of the sea and pours them 

out on the surface of the earth,

the Lord is His name.   

After, rereading it, he sat in quiet thought and admiration, in deep contemplation and prayer over those holy words. He did so for upwards of an hour, just that holy verse, the man, the birds and the trees. It was odd, he had expected to see bees on this day, but they never appeared, and his solemnity was never broken. He was no educated man, he knew neither mathematics nor rhetoric, though in that hour of silence he understand more than the most learnéd physician. His wisdom went beyond the farthest reaches of the universe, and yet he knew of no such place.

As the time was right, the cloth was placed in the leather, his mark was kept, and the alive expression of God’s word entered into its cave. The man breathed, and the warmness of his knowledge spread throughout his body, whereby despite his age he at once stood with a magnificence far beyond the capabilities of his brittle bones and wrinkly skin. Dedicated once more to his journey, he ate a few of his plants, which gave him the energy to continue walking. Eventually, he arrived at a stream, and when his thirst was quenched he was ready to return to his home, no longer hungry and no longer thirsty. Along the way he picked up a flower or two and kept an eye out for an edible plant he was running low on.

Once he had arrived back, he planted these in his garden and tended to it once more. Then, like before, he sat in his rocking chair, listening to the birds and trees, the birds and the trees. Then he prepared his dinner, a simple root mash with no seasoning. Once that was consumed, he placed his satchel on its hook, but not before taking out the leather-bound pages slumbering within, which instantly awoke with excitement upon seeing his face. 

He took his favorite item, and with it he sat and watched the sun slowly descend behind the mountains, its tears at being gone leaving the sky awash in red and purple until both meshed into a sad gray. He opened his book, and began to read. When he had finished, he prayed of the life and the lived, then gathered his things and shuffled indoors. His book was placed on its throne on the shelf, his clothes were stripped, and he lay down on his mat, content and excited to repeat the day again.