It was time for some fall planting.
I’m
new at this whole gardening thing. In other words, I have no idea what
I’m doing. Good thing my mom’s brilliant with these things. Last week,
I spent a few days in their neck of the woods (and I mean that
literally), and helped my mom do some of her gardening. Very
instructive. For example, I learned that pansies and snap dragons are
winter flowers.
So home again, home again this weekend and time to
work on my miniature garden (which never feels miniature when you’re
working on it).
I think I like gardening. Besides getting to sink
your hands into dirt (or, in Texas, clay, which passes for dirt), you
have time to think, pray, and sing (yes, out loud–don’t worry; the
neighbors have known for a while about the conditions of my mind). And
it struck me. God’s work in me is a lot like gardening.
The process spanned three days. My process, that is, not God’s. Although wouldn’t it be nice?
Saturday,
I bought all the supplies with the intention of planting in the
afternoon. Except we needed to run this errand and that errand. Okay,
so no gardening done Saturday. Still, supplies were bought.
Sunday,
after an afternoon nap that went longer than planned, I got out there.
Alas, our big trees (which I adore, so this is not a complaint, mind
you) had stripped their leaves all over our front yard, including in my
garden. You’d think they were five (or my husband) leaving (leafing? I
know, I know) their clothes all over the floor. Sheesh. So I spent most
of my time on Sunday clearing out the leaves and the acorns and the
pecans, knowing that in another week, I’ll have to go back there and
clear it out again.
Which brings me to astute observation number
one: does God get tired of clearing out my old dredge, knowing He’s
going to have to do it again? And again. And again.
I also had to
pull out the summer flowers–the vinias and the zinnias (I sound like
Dr. Seuss) and the daisies. I hated doing it. They still thrived with
the weather being what it has been (spring-like). But I knew (or
rather, my mother knew and told me) that they wouldn’t last much
longer. They wouldn’t make it through the next season. So I pulled them
out and cut back the potato vine and the honeysuckle. The potato vine
and honeysuckle look like they’ve had a crew cut.
Astute observation
number two: does it make God sad to pull out things that seem beautiful
in our lives but that He knows won’t last? He has to pull out the old
sometimes to make room for the new. Does He ever not want to dig out
some flowers in our lives? Or prune, even though He knows that’s
what’ll allow us to thrive later?
Sunday was also my day of pain.
The sun had set, and the light dimmed, although I didn’t realize it
because I was busy at work and busy chatting on the phone with a
friend. My mom had given me an agorapantha plant (which I’m spelling
wrong, but I can’t find how to actually spell it), and I took a knife
to it to cut it into at least two plants. Suddenly, sting, sting.
I looked down at my knees to see a colony of red ants attacking. I
could almost hear the trumpet: Charge! I ran into the house, peeling
off my pants as I went (hoping the neighbors weren’t watching).
"Fire ants! Fire ants!" I yelled and dashed into the shower.
Now,
if you live or have lived in Texas, you know the two bains of gardening
here are the aforementioned clay (which is not conducive to growing
living things other than roly polies) and fire ants. Fire ants inflict
much pain. Later, that pain becomes a maddening itch (although I’ll
contend it’s not as bad as fleas).
Needless to say, I was done
gardening for the day. The following day, when I returned to the
garden, I found the knife sticking out of the agorapantha like an
abandoned crime scene.
Astute observation three: does God’s gardening in my life sometimes inflict pain upon Him?
Besides even the pain He endured on the cross? Does He hurt when I lash
out, not liking having a knife stuck in me one bit and sending out my
army of fire ants?
Finally, we’re at Monday. The final day (sort of) of my gardening process. Monday was my fun (as opposed to all claims in the song).
The ground was prepped, and I came armed with a drum of ant killer.
Before planting the seasonal pansies and snap dragons and dianthus,
though, I dug holes for my bulbs–tulip, daffodil, and hyacinth. I
don’t remember what I put where or what colors I bought. Which means
that come spring (hopefully), I’ll have a fun surprise waiting for me.
But it’ll be a long, long wait through the cold (or occasionally chilly
days here in Texas).
Astute observation number–what number are we
on?: I don’t want to wait. I’ve been through all this pain, this
pruning and clearing and digging, and I want the pretty now. But maybe
come spring, I’ll have a fun surprise waiting for me. I wonder, is God
ever pleasantly surprised by what comes up? (Scratch that last
question. I’m not in the mood to debate omniscience and sovereignty and
free will.)
After the bulbs, I put in my winter plants. This was the
easiest step and the most immediately gratifying. Voila! Beautifulness
on my front lawn. I went running yesterday and stood first for a couple
of minutes in front of my house, admiring my work. I like making things
beautiful, in music, in writing, in knitting, in gardening. That’s not
to deny the darkness of it, the tension without which resolve and
release in music means nothing, the conflict that makes the plot in
writing, the cramped hands in knitting, the tight hamstrings and fire
ant bites in gardening. But in the end, it’s beautiful, and I like
being a part of that.
I suspect that God enjoys making things beautiful. After all, He’s Creator. We get it from him (I learned it by watching you, alright?).