The Garden That Knew My Name
My mother’s childhood was shaped by hardship long before I ever entered the world. She survived polio at four years old—an illness that left her body fragile and her spirit fighting. Much of her childhood was spent in braces, in hospitals, learning to push through pain because resting wasn’t an option.
And although I don’t remember my grandpa personally, the stories about him were always the same: strict, unbending, hard where softness was needed.
So before my mother ever had children, she had already learned to survive in ways that didn’t leave much room for tenderness. She carried wounds no one tended to, expectations she learned to shoulder alone, and emotional burdens that shaped how she parented without her even realizing it.
I see now that she carried a lot before I ever knew her.
But when she was given the chance to change her children’s experience—to soften what had once been harsh, to offer safety where she had known fear—she fell short. Not out of cruelty, but out of injury. Out of instinct. Out of the only patterns she had ever known.
I grew up believing it was my responsibility to keep her safe.
Her emotions.
Her stability.
Her world.
So minimizing my own needs came early. I learned to quiet my feelings before they became inconvenient. I learned to read the room before I entered it. I learned that being strong was more acceptable than being seen.
The soil of my childhood garden was familiar… but it wasn’t nourishing.
And I didn’t realize how deeply those roots had grown until adulthood—when healing forced me to see that some gardens shape you, but they don’t get to keep you.
🌱The Pull of the Old Garden
Even after my hip surgery, when simply walking through a day required effort and bravery, I still felt the pull of that old garden—the one built on obligation rather than reciprocity. The one where love had to be earned. The one where showing up meant shrinking myself.
So when the phone started ringing that Easter weekend, the calls didn’t sound like invitations.
They sounded like pleas.
“When are we doing Easter?”
“I have eggs for the boys.”
Eggs for the boys…
They hadn’t celebrated Easter like that in years. They were older now—growing, changing, stepping into their own lives. But she didn’t know that. Because she didn’t know them.
Not their humor.
Not their interests.
Not the ways their hearts had stretched and matured.
For years, holidays with her had been inconsistent. Someone else usually came before us… until they didn’t. And suddenly, we were the ones she reached for—but not out of genuine desire. Out of convenience. Out of absence.
Still, after enough calls, I surrendered.
We’ll come home Sunday.
We’ll be there at 7.
I’ll put something together.
It should have been simple. But it wasn’t.
🌿The Moment Everything Shifted
Sunday morning came. We were heading out the door for church when my phone rang. I froze.
Because I knew this call carried weight.
She spoke quickly, needing to say it all before I could process it.
“Teri… I can’t make your dinner.”
She rushed to explain—my brother might come over sometime, and she didn’t want to miss him.
I made a small sound—one that caught the attention of Best Friend and the boys standing near me. This wasn’t the first time plans had been canceled. Not the first time I’d rearranged myself for someone who didn’t intend to stay.
And all I said was:
“Okay… that’s fine. Just call me later.”
But something was different this time.
I didn’t feel hurt.
I didn’t feel disappointed.
I didn’t feel small. I felt finished.
Finished shrinking.
Finished bending.
Finished pouring myself into a place that had stopped growing me a long time ago.
And as I looked at my husband and boys standing beside me—steady, loving, present—I felt something holy settle in my spirit: The garden that grew me was no longer the garden that felt like home.
I had spent a lifetime tending someone else’s needs, moods, and expectations. But God was showing me a new garden.
A gentler one.
A safer one.
One built on love, not fear.
Truth, not obligation. Belonging, not performance.
It never felt good— not being enough, not being chosen, not being the preferred child.
But sometimes the push out of one place is what finally puts you into places that hold you just right. Places that help you grow. Places that soften you. Places that teach you to lay down the hardened skills the wrong soil taught you.
That Easter disappointment took a heavy toll on my relationship with her. I realized I could no longer put someone ahead of the people who did show up for me.
And I would be lying if I said all of it was bad— because the ache of not being chosen taught me to long for love. To search for it. To crave connection.
But the void I carried wasn’t meant to be filled by people.
It was filled the moment I surrendered to Jesus. I didn’t have to show up perfect. I didn’t have to earn His affection. I didn’t have to be the preferred one.
I just had to surrender… and be held.
For the first time in my life, I belonged without performing. I was loved without conditions. I was known without disappearing.
And that was when I understood:
The garden that once knew my name was not the garden that knew my soul.
Jesus was.
📖Scripture Reading
Isaiah 43:1–4, 18–19 (ASV)
But now thus saith Jehovah that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel: Fear not, for I have redeemed thee; I have called thee by thy name, thou art mine. 2. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. 3. For I am Jehovah thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Savior. 4. Since thou hast been precious in my sight, and honorable, and I have loved thee, therefore will I give men for thee, and peoples for thy life.
18. Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. 19. Behold, I will do a new thing; now shall it spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.
✨Scripture Summary
Isaiah tells the story of a God who meets His people in their wounds, not after they’ve healed from them, but while they are still walking through them.
He reminds us that God:
formed us,
redeemed us,
calls us by name,
claims us as His own,
walks with us through waters and fire,
and declares us precious and loved.
And then He turns our eyes forward:
“Forget the former things… I am doing a new thing.”
God does not erase the past— but He refuses to let it define our future.
🌿Why This Matters for Us
Many of us grew up in gardens we didn’t choose. Homes marked by silence instead of safety. Expectations instead of affection. Performance instead of presence.
And over time, we learned to call those places normal simply because they were familiar.
But God never intended for familiar to be our definition of home.
Leaving the “garden that knew your name” is not betrayal. It is obedience. It is healing. It is trusting that the God who calls you His will not leave you in places that stunt your growth.
🌱Reflection
What “old garden” in your life feels familiar but no longer fruitful?
What emotional burdens or expectations were placed on you early in life that you still carry today?
Where have you mistaken familiarity for belonging?
How has God been calling you into new soil?
What “new thing” do you sense God growing in you right now?
💚Rooted Reminder
You are allowed to outgrow the garden that grew you.
You do not have to stay small to be loved.
You do not have to be loyal to places that cannot hold you.
You do not have to bloom in soil that was never meant for your roots.
God call you by name-
not the name your past gave you, but the name love speaks over you.
🙏Closing Prayer
Lord, thank You for calling me out of the places that no longer nourish me. Thank You for knowing my name even when others misnamed my worth. Uproot the beliefs, fears, and patterns that kept me small, and plant me in the soil You have prepared for me.
Teach me to trust Your voice more than old expectations. Help me release what was, embrace what You are doing now, and walk boldly into the new thing You are growing in my life.
Hold my heart, guide my steps, and make my roots strong in You.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
