The planting
At long last the skies cleared for nearly a week straight, the Lord's nod of approval that the time had come. And for plenty of other people as well, we eager beavers reaching over top of one another in a crowded seed aisle so early in the morning.
The tilling is first, Daddy maneuvering the tractor to break through winter's clods and even up the smooth, weedless soil. As he sings to himself, Trey does the same on the mower, and Aden and I do the same pulling weeds. How can you keep from singing under deep blue sky and the new life all around?
The boys' favorite part? Throwing rocks. Which becomes a short-lived distance competition, followed quickly by a high-volume lecture about not aiming at each other.
After lunch, we plant. Green beans first, Aden sometimes-gently guiding the seeder along the row, Trey following behind to kick dirt to cover the seeds. Then cucumbers with a lesson on forming hills and how maybe God put the top knuckle where He did so we'd know how deep to plant. Trey planted them all.
Not that it was hot, but still a water break is called for. Especially when it evolves into taking turns playing with the wheel barrow or a game of pop-fly catch.
Rest up, then leave a space, wide and well-lit, for the tomatoes. Still too cold at night, but we'll get them in the ground soon. And with them, weed paper at the base, cage around, and a leafy limb to shade them until they get settled. I smell a tomato and I'm back at the downtown market with Pawpaw Robbie, stacking veggies in the scale and placing them back carefully on the table.
Beside the tomatoes, Mama's little gift to herself. How I can be the only person in the house who eats black-eyed peas is beyond me. Savory salty comfort food. And they're all mine.
Then with plenty of room to spare, Trey and I dig more hills for the squash and zucchini. It's been a long time since we've had a good crop of these, so we pep talk the seeds as we go.
Finally the corn. It seems to thrive in the worst of rocky soil, so that's where we put it. Aden pushing the seeder asking why the kernels are pink when corn is yellow, and I have no idea, son. One of those things to make us remember that God's ways are higher than ours, I suppose.
We stand there surveying a day's work. Lord, please bless our little garden. For us and for whoever we can bless from it.
Why do I love this so much? When I was a kid at Meemaw's, I hated going into the garden. Paper dolls and throwing shoes in trees and doing whatever we could think of with the Chinese checkers set because we didn't really know how to play was so much more fun.
I'm getting old and soft and probably way too introspective I guess, but it goes back to the three lessons of hay.
Only God could make this happen. Brandon said it best: "Those seeds sit on a shelf for months. Then you put a little dirt around them, and somehow they know it's time to do something." I mean seriously, y'all. They just know. Science can say whatever it wants, but the earth is the Lord's, and everything in it.
It is provision. God is faithful, and He always, always provides. It was last summer in the throes of depression when I went out in early June to hopefully get enough beans for dinner, and as the bucket neared three gallons my Lord whispered to me, I will take care of you. His love wrecks me, and I seem to feel it most out there looking up at the mountains and down at the orange-brown soil and baby green stems. The beauty of His power and majesty contrasted against his gentle nurture.
And then, it is yet another real-life, outward picture of a spiritual, internal process. The seed is dead. Only when it is broken apart does it begin to live, to perfect what it is here for. Ann Voskamp says, "If you didn't know what growth looks like, you might mistake it for complete destruction." But the ugliness of being broken apart gives the seed strength to root itself down and fight through the earth, reaching heavenward to be born out of the soil, to grow and mature and produce and fulfill.
Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains by itself. But if it dies, it produces much fruit. John 12:24
So it was for Jesus, His death life for us. And so it is with us, as we are called to die to self. To be broken and then made new. To dig deep and reach up and thrive in Him because it's what we were made for.
Such an amazing thing. That all starts with a seed.
The tilling is first, Daddy maneuvering the tractor to break through winter's clods and even up the smooth, weedless soil. As he sings to himself, Trey does the same on the mower, and Aden and I do the same pulling weeds. How can you keep from singing under deep blue sky and the new life all around?
The boys' favorite part? Throwing rocks. Which becomes a short-lived distance competition, followed quickly by a high-volume lecture about not aiming at each other.
After lunch, we plant. Green beans first, Aden sometimes-gently guiding the seeder along the row, Trey following behind to kick dirt to cover the seeds. Then cucumbers with a lesson on forming hills and how maybe God put the top knuckle where He did so we'd know how deep to plant. Trey planted them all.
Not that it was hot, but still a water break is called for. Especially when it evolves into taking turns playing with the wheel barrow or a game of pop-fly catch.
Rest up, then leave a space, wide and well-lit, for the tomatoes. Still too cold at night, but we'll get them in the ground soon. And with them, weed paper at the base, cage around, and a leafy limb to shade them until they get settled. I smell a tomato and I'm back at the downtown market with Pawpaw Robbie, stacking veggies in the scale and placing them back carefully on the table.
Beside the tomatoes, Mama's little gift to herself. How I can be the only person in the house who eats black-eyed peas is beyond me. Savory salty comfort food. And they're all mine.
Then with plenty of room to spare, Trey and I dig more hills for the squash and zucchini. It's been a long time since we've had a good crop of these, so we pep talk the seeds as we go.
Finally the corn. It seems to thrive in the worst of rocky soil, so that's where we put it. Aden pushing the seeder asking why the kernels are pink when corn is yellow, and I have no idea, son. One of those things to make us remember that God's ways are higher than ours, I suppose.
We stand there surveying a day's work. Lord, please bless our little garden. For us and for whoever we can bless from it.
Why do I love this so much? When I was a kid at Meemaw's, I hated going into the garden. Paper dolls and throwing shoes in trees and doing whatever we could think of with the Chinese checkers set because we didn't really know how to play was so much more fun.
I'm getting old and soft and probably way too introspective I guess, but it goes back to the three lessons of hay.
Only God could make this happen. Brandon said it best: "Those seeds sit on a shelf for months. Then you put a little dirt around them, and somehow they know it's time to do something." I mean seriously, y'all. They just know. Science can say whatever it wants, but the earth is the Lord's, and everything in it.
It is provision. God is faithful, and He always, always provides. It was last summer in the throes of depression when I went out in early June to hopefully get enough beans for dinner, and as the bucket neared three gallons my Lord whispered to me, I will take care of you. His love wrecks me, and I seem to feel it most out there looking up at the mountains and down at the orange-brown soil and baby green stems. The beauty of His power and majesty contrasted against his gentle nurture.
And then, it is yet another real-life, outward picture of a spiritual, internal process. The seed is dead. Only when it is broken apart does it begin to live, to perfect what it is here for. Ann Voskamp says, "If you didn't know what growth looks like, you might mistake it for complete destruction." But the ugliness of being broken apart gives the seed strength to root itself down and fight through the earth, reaching heavenward to be born out of the soil, to grow and mature and produce and fulfill.
Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains by itself. But if it dies, it produces much fruit. John 12:24
So it was for Jesus, His death life for us. And so it is with us, as we are called to die to self. To be broken and then made new. To dig deep and reach up and thrive in Him because it's what we were made for.
Such an amazing thing. That all starts with a seed.
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p.s. - Love the new look of your blog. Very nice!!