Parable: The Emperor’s Garden Sneak Peek 3 from my Upcoming Book
Parable: The Emperor’s Garden
Once, long ago, a man returned home to his small homestead to find a friend waiting for him near the garden bed. The soil had been tilled; neat rows carved into the earth. The scent of water still lingered in the air. Seeds had been planted.
His friend beamed, arms spread wide like a magician revealing a great trick.
“A gift,” he announced proudly. “I planted for you the rarest flower in the kingdom.”
The man looked at the disturbed ground, confused. “What kind of flower?”
“The most prized in all the land,” the friend said. “The emperor’s favorite. So rare and beautiful, it is said to be a symbol of divine favor. Its care is a sacred duty.”
The man raised a brow. “But these flowers are known to be difficult to grow. They require constant tending—shade and sunlight in balance, daily water carried from the river, exact temperatures, delicate pruning… even the soil must be maintained just right.”
His friend nodded, still smiling. “Yes but think of the honor! The emperor himself will recognize you as a noble steward of life.”
The man sat with this. “And if I don’t grow them?”
The friend’s smile faltered slightly. “To remove them would kill the seeds. That would be a violation of the emperor’s decree. There are laws. Punishments.”
The man’s face fell. “I did not ask for this garden.”
“But it was a gift,” the friend insisted. “A sacred opportunity.”
The man looked to the dry path that led to the river. “Will you help me carry the water?”
“Of course,” the friend said quickly. “I can stop by—perhaps once a week—and bring what I can.”
“And the materials? I’ll need a greenhouse to protect them from wind and frost. But I have no lumber, no money. If I am to care for this garden, I cannot work. Who will feed my family?”
The friend paused. “I hadn’t considered all of that. But surely there are ways. Perhaps others will help.”
The man nodded slowly, already weary. “And if the flowers begin to wilt under my care? If I fail?”
“Then the emperor may see that as neglect. Or worse.”
The man stared at the freshly planted earth. “So, I must build the greenhouse. Carry the water. Miss the work. Tend the garden every day. And if I struggle, you’ll visit… occasionally.”
The friend looked at him, then looked away.
The man sat down on the stoop, staring at the soil that now carried a weight he hadn’t chosen. He hadn’t asked for this burden, yet he would be the one expected to bear it. To be punished if he could not. To be praised only if he succeeded, quietly, without complaint.
His friend patted his shoulder gently. “But look how noble it is.”
And with that, the friend turned and walked away.
Some burdens are spoken in metaphor. Some rights, some freedoms, are discussed in whispers, wrapped in niceties. But the truth remains:
A gift is not a gift if it comes without consent.
A responsibility without choice is not sacred—it’s servitude.
And honor means nothing if it is demanded without support.
Women’s reproductive rights are not about politics. They are about reality.
Who carries the water? Who builds the greenhouse? Who bears the consequence?
This parable isn’t about flowers.
It’s about the lives planted in women’s bodies.
And the world that expects them to bloom, no matter the season.
Let it be clear:
No matter how rare the seed, no matter how revered the flower—
If the garden is not yours to tend by choice,
Then the burden is not holy.
It is injustice.
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