Found Faithful

In despair, or in delight, be found faithful.

My sixteen year old son, on my back in the above photo so many years ago, gave me a pack of seeds for Christmas, a variety of potential wish-dreams from arugula to zinnia, some of which I think will actually grow in this locale. I was delighted with the thought behind it: he recognized my past labors, and in thinking of what I might enjoy, remembered me in a garden or two.

To this point, I’ve left every garden I’ve planted. Every soil I cleared, weeded, amended, dug into, planted, transplanted around, divided and harvested from, and sat in the midst of, breathing in the musky earthy smell while watching chickadees flitter upon tree limbs reaching into my space. I hope those gardens are flourishing, but they are probably choked with blackberries by now. Or covered over with grasses and morning glory. Or tangled within tattered trellising, bits of rebar, flayed landscape fabrics.

For that is what I find now, in the field here, the plot behind the house we purchased last fall. Neglect has invited the area to revert to its wildness, and I can hardly tell where the potatoes used to be dug up. The rotting lumber underneath mats of sod give pitiful attention to the beauty and glory that flourished beforehand. It reminds me of a gravesite, where all the reminder of a life once lived is a cold rock headstone. Do I see potential? Or do I sense pointlessness?

So the seed packets in my hand seem laughable even as I shake them, considering.

But I know what will happen. The temperatures will warm. The sun will come out (yes, even in the Pacific Northwest). Strong blades of emerald grasses will push hard and fast through the ground reaching to brilliant blue skies. The swallows and bees and dandelion flowers will return, and the maples will unfurl brilliant lime green new leaves. And I will want to be outside, basking in the warmth and fresh air, crumbling soil between my fingers. I will want to be in the garden.

By faith, I pull out my gardening books and reintroduce myself to the idea of starting a garden from scratch. By faith, I order plastic seed starting trays. By faith, I walk outside in the damp, quiet and gray cold, measuring, wondering, wandering. By faith, I inventory my seeds, and examine my home for possible nurseries. For what does it matter if my garden is here today and gone tomorrow? Isn’t it the same with my own self, my body, my time here on this side of eternity?

The invasive confusion outside is just a reminder of what lies within the dash on our tombstones, the glory and the garbage all blended together in what makes a life. So how then shall I live?

I shall lift the trowel. The garden will come. And I shall be found faithful.