The Ladder in the Garden

Ladder propped against the wall, digital painting by Genrose Campasas

They found it propped against the wall behind the garden shed. Not tall enough to reach the roof. Not short enough to be called a stool. Its wood had warped from rain. A single vine had curled around one leg. No one could say who placed it there or how long it had been leaning. But it had been climbed.

Some said it was left from when the chimney was cleaned. Others said the caretaker used it for pruning. But neither chimney nor trees showed signs of attention.

What puzzled them most was the trail in the ivy.

Just above the ladder’s last rung, the green leaves were crushed flat against the stone, as if someone had stepped higher than the ladder could reach. There were no footprints on the roof, no broken tile, no slip or fall. Only the pressed ivy, and the silence of someone who tried to climb farther than the rungs allowed.

They removed the ladder. But some kept looking up.

It is in us all—the urge to rise. To climb high enough to be safe. To serve God so well that we might stop needing mercy. To grow enough that correction stings less. To pray enough, to work enough, to become a Christian polished enough that the conscience may rest, but not in Christ, but in the improvement.

That is the danger. We begin with grace. And soon we try to earn what we already received. We speak of weakness, but we climb as if we are strong.

“Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted” (Lk 18:14, NKJV). That is no metaphor. It is rather a verdict. The Lord sees ladders in our gardens, even when others only see vines.

Some of us pray because we love Christ. Others pray because it helps us feel clean. Some serve because we know the cross. Others serve to forget that we still need it.

The man who climbed the ladder in the garden was never found. That is because he was never missing. He is in our pulpits, in our pews, in our study rooms, and in our hearts. He is the one who tells us that if we can reach a little higher, we may not have to kneel.

But Christ does not live on rooftops. He walks in the garden in the cool of the day. He calls to those who hide. He stoops low. And “He gives more grace” (Jas 4:6).

It may be that the higher we climb, the more grace we leave behind. And it may be that to receive grace again, we must climb down.

Let us leave the ladder where it leans, and fall instead on the ground where Christ once sweat blood. It is lower than we like. But it is where mercy runs.