Over the many years that we were married, my husband Mark grew a garden. Each evening after dinner, he would go to his garden, weed, water, pinch the bugs off, and “talk to the Boys.” We always teased him about talking to those tomatoes, but honestly, they were the best tomatoes around. They had received special attention.
The Spring before he died, he planted twelve heads of romaine lettuce, and they flourished. He planted tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, and cucumbers. During that summer when he was much weaker, he would sit in his lawn chair at the edge of the garden cutting twine and giving me specific instructions on how to stake and tie up the tomatoes. If I appeared to be too harsh with the branches of the tomato plants he hollered, “Gently, gently” like they were babies. I shook my head, chuckling at his tender care of his plants.
The year after he died, I had to move to a new location which had a marvelous back yard, and in it I decided to plant a garden, just to carry on the legacy of Mark’s skill of being a gardener. I did not like vegetable gardening, and I knew that I would never be the gardener that he was , but I tried to imitate what I saw him do. With help from a friend, I carefully prepared the ground for planting, chose seeds and plants to place in carefully arranged rows.
I spent hours on my hands and knees, weeding and watering, pinching and, yes, talking to the Boys. I frequently told them that I hoped Mark would be happy with what I was trying to accomplish.
The garden went crazy. I had tomato plants that were almost six feet high. I strung up my cucumbers on frames, but I had to raise the frames about a foot higher because the vines were heavy with cucumbers, and I did not want them lying in the dirt on the ground where they were wont to rot. A great deal of satisfaction came from the prolific production of produce coming from that little spot in my backyard.
Last year, my garden was bigger and better. So, this year, I plan to expand just a little so that I have more elbowroom to work. I am hoping to save my children the trouble of running to the produce stand or the market by providing them with “the fruits of my labors,’ as Mark would say.
Most of the produce I gave away to people at church and the neighbors. As I work out there in the dirt among the plants, I think with joy of the many life illustrations that a garden provides. I also think with joy and some nostalgia of the moments that Mark came in from the garden, delighted that the Boys were coming on and the cukes needed picking. He was right about gardening; it is a great place to relax.
I now know that while he was out there, Mark was talking to his heavenly Father about some plants he had in his church that needed some special attention: pruning, watering, bug squishing, and tying up heavily-laden limbs. I believe that some of this gardening attributed to a prolific production of spiritual produce in our church.
I have learned that the garden is a great place to talk out some of the bugs in my own life. Try a little garden for starters. It’s therapeutic.