Firstfruits
There's a fine line between pleasant and irritating, and my alarm noise straddles that line every day, though tending more toward the irritating.
But this particular morning, in the first lights of day, it's a welcome sound. I have a much-anticipated date to keep. Through the weeding and the tilling and the watering and the pampering, I've known for about a week that today would be the day.
Hair goes in a quick bun. It's finally long enough to stay that way, and despite the hour it's sticky and hot out. Throw on already-dirty clothes and early-2000s cheap sneakers now cracked and mud-crusty and smooth-soled. The garden could care less how I look.
The newly risen sun peeks through the trees as I walk through the still-closed storm door that will someday get fixed. The hoe gets passed by, and instead my companion is an empty five-gallon bucket.
I trudge through knee-high grasshopper weeds that have taken over the yard. "Lord, will you meet me here?" After all, a garden was His first choice. Never does it fail to speak victory and provision and new life to me.
The beans are full and healthy, ready for me and my bucket. The firstfruits are just immaculate, y'all. Long, green, smooth, straight, and firm, not a bug bite or smudge of mud to be found.
Oh, little fellows. We've been waiting for you.
Up and down four rows. Bean by bean, handful by handful. In the beginning it's too early even for people to be headed into work. The road is quiet until a rattling, rusty pickup crawls by. We wave, the farmer and me. It's just us for now, us and the birds. Oh how they sing. My thirsty voice joins them for a praise song or two.
The bucket grows heavier, as God whispers "abundant" to me. Sparking a sometimes-out-loud discussion between us about the full life He wants me to have versus the vanishing fullness I've been running after lately.
After four gallons of beans (and an equal number left to grow a few days more), cucumber row is next. We ran out of time to do the vertical growing thing, so the bloom-laden vines creep along the dirt and grab hold of each other. These too are strong and green, and atop the beans go four fresh cucumbers.
My black-eyed peas are growing slowly. Very, very slowly. But at least they're growing.
The tomatoes look great, though in our on-again, off-again rain scenario of late, they've needed plenty of watering. You'd think these near-hundred degree days would throw us an evening storm every now and then. We'll see.
Squash and zucchini are thriving. With a few more plants than usual this year, I'm really hoping to freeze a few packages. These two veggies are the stars of a summer stew recipe we've grown quite fond of, that would have a perfect spot in our winter soup rotation.
Corn too, reaching skyward in the worst of the soil. It won't be ready for a while, but guaranteed on the day it is, we're having crisp, buttery corn for lunch. And probably dinner too.
An hour gone, traffic heavier and skin glistening with dirt and sweat, my bucket and I head for the house. Our family will eat well and so will several others. And the Lord will continue to provide, as He always does.
Thank you, Father.
But this particular morning, in the first lights of day, it's a welcome sound. I have a much-anticipated date to keep. Through the weeding and the tilling and the watering and the pampering, I've known for about a week that today would be the day.
Hair goes in a quick bun. It's finally long enough to stay that way, and despite the hour it's sticky and hot out. Throw on already-dirty clothes and early-2000s cheap sneakers now cracked and mud-crusty and smooth-soled. The garden could care less how I look.
The newly risen sun peeks through the trees as I walk through the still-closed storm door that will someday get fixed. The hoe gets passed by, and instead my companion is an empty five-gallon bucket.
I trudge through knee-high grasshopper weeds that have taken over the yard. "Lord, will you meet me here?" After all, a garden was His first choice. Never does it fail to speak victory and provision and new life to me.
The beans are full and healthy, ready for me and my bucket. The firstfruits are just immaculate, y'all. Long, green, smooth, straight, and firm, not a bug bite or smudge of mud to be found.
Oh, little fellows. We've been waiting for you.
Up and down four rows. Bean by bean, handful by handful. In the beginning it's too early even for people to be headed into work. The road is quiet until a rattling, rusty pickup crawls by. We wave, the farmer and me. It's just us for now, us and the birds. Oh how they sing. My thirsty voice joins them for a praise song or two.
The bucket grows heavier, as God whispers "abundant" to me. Sparking a sometimes-out-loud discussion between us about the full life He wants me to have versus the vanishing fullness I've been running after lately.
After four gallons of beans (and an equal number left to grow a few days more), cucumber row is next. We ran out of time to do the vertical growing thing, so the bloom-laden vines creep along the dirt and grab hold of each other. These too are strong and green, and atop the beans go four fresh cucumbers.
My black-eyed peas are growing slowly. Very, very slowly. But at least they're growing.
The tomatoes look great, though in our on-again, off-again rain scenario of late, they've needed plenty of watering. You'd think these near-hundred degree days would throw us an evening storm every now and then. We'll see.
Squash and zucchini are thriving. With a few more plants than usual this year, I'm really hoping to freeze a few packages. These two veggies are the stars of a summer stew recipe we've grown quite fond of, that would have a perfect spot in our winter soup rotation.
Corn too, reaching skyward in the worst of the soil. It won't be ready for a while, but guaranteed on the day it is, we're having crisp, buttery corn for lunch. And probably dinner too.
An hour gone, traffic heavier and skin glistening with dirt and sweat, my bucket and I head for the house. Our family will eat well and so will several others. And the Lord will continue to provide, as He always does.
Thank you, Father.
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