Finding Your Place in God's Garden

Have you ever stood in a field of wildflowers and noticed how each bloom seems perfectly content being exactly what it is? The daisy doesn't strain to become a sunflower. The violet doesn't apologize for not being a lily. Yet how often do we scroll through social media, sit in meetings, or gather with friends and find ourselves wishing we had someone else's talents, someone else's calling, someone else's life?

This peculiar human tendency—to look everywhere but at our own reflection in God's eyes—may be one of the most subtle forms of ingratitude we practice. When we long to be someone else, we're essentially telling the Creator that His workmanship in us is somehow deficient. We become critics of the Divine Artist, suggesting we know better than He does about what the world needs.

The Little Way of a Little Flower

Marie-Françoise-Thérèse Martin, known to the world as St. Thérèse of Lisieux, understood something profound about this human struggle. Born in 1873 in Alençon, France, she entered the Carmelite convent at the remarkable age of fifteen and died just nine years later from tuberculosis. In those brief twenty-four years, she discovered a truth that would revolutionize Christian spirituality and speak to countless souls across denominations: God delights not in our greatness, but in our littleness when it is offered with great love.

Thérèse called herself "the Little Flower of Jesus," and this wasn't false humility or self-deprecation. She wrote in her autobiography, Story of a Soul:

"I understood that every flower created by Him is beautiful, that the brilliance of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not lessen the perfume of the violet or the sweet simplicity of the daisy... If all the lowly flowers wished to be roses, nature would lose its springtide beauty, and the fields would no longer be enameled with lovely hues."

Consider the profound theological insight hidden in this simple metaphor. Thérèse recognized that diversity in creation isn't an accident or a hierarchy of worth—it's the very poetry of God made visible. Each created thing, by being fully itself, participates in the grand design, the great artistry of God's beautiful creation.

The Biblical Foundation: Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

The psalmist David understood this divine intentionality in creation when he wrote: "For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made" (Psalm 139:13-14, ESV). The Hebrew word for "knitted" (sakak) implies an intricate weaving, a careful covering, a deliberate and protective forming. God didn't mass-produce humanity; He crafted each person with the attention of a master artisan.

The Apostle Paul develops this theme further in his first letter to the Corinthians, using the metaphor of the body: "For the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot should say, 'Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,' that would not make it any less a part of the body" (1 Corinthians 12:14-15, ESV). Paul's argument is both practical and mystical—the body of believers functions precisely because of its diversity, not in spite of it.

What strikes me most about Paul's metaphor is how he anticipates our very modern struggle with comparison and envy. The foot wanting to be a hand isn't just misguided; it's a fundamental misunderstanding of its purpose and value. When we wish to be someone else, we're not just expressing dissatisfaction with ourselves—we're declaring that we know better than God what the body needs. We blind ourselves to the gift of life we've been particularly given and instead wallow in discontent that we aren't given someone else's life instead.

 

The Tragedy of Comparison

The early church father John Chrysostom (c. 349-407) warned against the poison of envy in his homilies, calling it "the daughter of vainglory" and noting how it corrupts even our virtues. He observed that envy makes us "ungrateful for our own blessings" while we "grieve at the blessings of others." This insight penetrates to the heart of why comparing ourselves to others is so spiritually destructive—it blinds us to grace already present in our lives.

Consider King Saul's tragic trajectory in the Old Testament. Here was a man chosen by God, anointed as Israel's first king, given every advantage. Yet when he heard the women singing, "Saul has struck down his thousands, and David his ten thousands" (1 Samuel 18:7, ESV), envy consumed him. Instead of celebrating his role in God's plan, he became obsessed with David's gifts. This envy didn't just make Saul miserable; it ultimately destroyed him. He spent his final years chasing shadows instead of fulfilling his calling.

The tragedy wasn't that David was gifted—it was that Saul forgot his own anointing in his obsession with David's. How often do we do the same? We see someone else's success, gifts, or calling, and suddenly our own blessings feel like burdens, our own gifts seem paltry.

 

The Freedom of Authenticity

Thomas Merton, the twentieth-century Trappist monk and writer, put it this way: "For me to be a saint means to be myself. Therefore the problem of sanctity and salvation is in fact the problem of finding out who I am and of discovering my true self." This isn't the self-actualization of pop psychology; it's the profound theological truth that God's will for us is written into our very being.

When we try to be someone else, we're not just failing at being them—we're failing at being ourselves.

And since we are the only version of ourselves that will ever exist, this represents an irretrievable loss to the world. The particular way you love, serve, create, and exist will never be replicated. Your specific combination of experiences, gifts, struggles, and graces forms a unique refraction of God's light that the world desperately needs.

St. Thérèse understood that her "little way"—her path of small, hidden acts of love—was not a consolation prize for those who couldn't be great saints. It was her particular genius, her unique contribution to the treasury of grace. She wrote: "I will seek out a means of getting to Heaven by a little way—very short and very straight, a little way that is wholly new."

 

The Discipline of Gratitude

How then do we cultivate this contentment with our own calling? How do we learn to bloom where we're planted without constantly looking over the fence at our neighbor's garden?

First, we must develop what I call "the discipline of particularity"—a deliberate practice of noticing and giving thanks for the specific gifts God has given us. This isn't generic gratitude but detailed acknowledgment. Instead of "Thank you for my talents," we pray, "Thank you for my ability to listen deeply to others," or "Thank you for my gift of working with my hands," or "Thank you for my capacity to see patterns in complex problems."

The Hebrew concept of hodah—thanksgiving that includes confession and praise—suggests that genuine gratitude requires honest acknowledgment of what is. When we practice hodah, we're not pretending to be grateful for gifts we don't have; we're genuinely recognizing the gifts we do have.

Second, we must learn to celebrate others without self-reference. When we see someone else's success or gift, can we genuinely rejoice without immediately making it about ourselves? Can we say, "How wonderful that God gave you that gift!" without the silent addition of "...and not me"?

 

Practical Steps Forward

As you go about your week, I invite you to try this exercise: Each morning, before the day's comparisons can take hold, write down three specific aspects of how God has uniquely crafted you. Not generic blessings, but particular features of your personality, your history, your gifts. Maybe it's your ability to remember people's names, your patience with difficult relatives, or your knack for making people laugh during tense moments. Pray a prayer of thanks to God for those particular gifts.

Then, throughout the day, when you catch yourself envying someone else's gift or calling, pause and ask: "What is my equivalent of this?" Not the same gift, but your corresponding one. If you envy someone's public speaking ability, perhaps God gave you the gift of one-on-one encouragement. If you wish you had someone's artistic talent, perhaps God gave you the ability to appreciate and support artists.

Finally, consider adopting St. Thérèse's evening practice. She would offer to God all the small acts of love from her day—a smile given when she didn't feel like smiling, patience with an irritating sister, faithful attention to a task that felt tedious. She didn't have to change the world to be a saint; she simply had to offer her world, as it was, to God.

 

God Bless,

Judah