The Garden is In

      In the Beginning, God created gardens. And then He cursed them as a punishment for man’s outright disobedience. 

      Curse notwithstanding, one of John’s former co-teachers still believes that “the nearest place to heaven on earth is in a garden. After all, that is where God walked with Adam.”

      Apparently my veggies think so, too, and not because they are partial to their environment. They view my garden as their Gateway to Heaven and step directly from their mulched beds into Veggie Paradise without so much as a pause in my kitchen.

      But I disagree with John’s co-teacher and my veggies. I think gardens are the brown of life. The hard work. The blistering toil. The sweaty brow. I came into marriage thinking all I needed to do to grow things was lovingly tuck a few seeds into their earthen bed like my mom did, till them a few times like my dad did and watch them produce enough to fill an entire wall with canning jars in the fall.  Wrong. We till and mulch and coddle and water like all good gardeners do. And the sweet potato plot offered enough emaciated tubers to satisfy two adults and one potato-hating toddler with a single meal of potatoes. 

      Our tomatoes died off completely, so I gave them a final withering glare and shelled out five dollars to purchase all the tomatoes I needed for the winter.

      “Five dollars!” John said, impressed with my frugal purchase. “We can’t grow tomatoes for five dollars.”

      “We can’t grow them period,” I said darkly, remembering the graveyard plot out back. 

      “If you didn’t like to garden, I would suggest we skip one altogether.” He sounded resolute, like he was ready to throw down his hoe if I didn’t find gardening therapeu--

      Wait. Did he think I liked gardening? I took it as a compliment. If he thought I enjoyed a dreaded task after years of working in it together, it must be a sign I’m maturing. At long last.*    

     The rest of the story is that we have not gardened since that conversation. In the meantime, our son grew up enough to want to grow things, a desire neither of his parents understand. Yet what can we do? If he wanted to grow exotic birds, say, I would feel justified in saying no. But gardening? We have the plot and need the produce, so we agreed to try it again. 

      Ironically, the first seeds we acquired for the garden were Job's Tears, a gift from the neighbor. I couldn't decide if planting tears is a fitting choice for people like us, or if planting tears means we have sown them all and will reap in joy. 

The center of Job's Tears can be removed and the shell can be used as beads.

      We planted the garden last night. The children thought gardening was wonderful. I hope they feel the same way in August. 

*This was the introduction for my article "The Sanctified Pursuit of Pleasure," printed in Daughters of Promise magazine, May & June 2015