The Garden

The air is cool this morning. I love stepping out onto my patio to watch the sun come up changing the clouds from one lovely pastel shade to another. Sometimes the pinks are more predominant; sometimes the yellows stand out. Too soon, though, there’s the ubiquitous pastel blues and fluffy white of clouds. And the bird song, ah, how wonderfully melodic!

I missed our hummingbirds this year. I put the feeder out shortly after our friend, Barbara, left, but it has remained untouched. The geraniums in the window box are gorgeous, and Monday, I picked a "mess" of green beans from our garden in the back. We have tomatoes on the vine, squash, peppers, carrots, watermelon, and cantaloupe. I felt so blessed to be able to eat beans last night that I had grown. Somehow it connects me to my grandparents who were subsistence gardeners (in order to feed their ten children), and gives me hope for the future metaphorically of inner growth and expressing my creative energies in new and different ways.

The rains have been much more normal this year. That doesn’t mean that I can let my careful gardening slacken off, however. There’s grass growing between the rows of veggies that needs pulling, and I still need to water every other day for now. Inside all the houseplants are thriving thanks to a recent dose of plant food. The dogs enjoy going out early and late with me to run and play. The trees we planted four years ago are finally showing a lot of growth, and my dreams of a little backyard Eden are looking more promising everyday.

Sometimes in the dry months, we wonder where God is—why God doesn’t send rain when we need it so badly. We want to know why there’s no obvious growth and the plants are withering and stunted. In this season of water, however, it’s easy to see the blessings of a healthy biosphere where sun and rain work together to promote growth.

What metaphor is present in that bit of rambling for my own life? What sympathetic and empathetic lessons can I find in the backyard garden I’ve struggled to grow for six years now? For me, the answer lies in patient waiting for the fruit to be gathered, and then to rejoice in the harvest—however small it may be. This season, I’ve seen copious irises, my rose bush was ablaze with color, and the Ligustrum next to the house is full of little blooms each filling my breathing with fragrance. And God has been present in that fullness just as God was present in the dry months of the past years. During that time, perhaps God was working even harder at sustaining my natural and spiritual environment so that I could return to this fullness with joy and certitude. Thanks be to God!