The Gift of a Garden

As autumn arrives, I reflect on the past year and how beauty has saved me. What comes to mind first is not the church (though I am grateful for her fellowship and sacraments), but the accidental garden in our front yard. The goodness of God is cloaked in mystery, which became apparent in the unexpected gift of a family garden we never intended to plant. God has marvelous plans for us, which involve healing and restoration, not only of our tired and weary hearts but also of the land and our kinship to it.

Our garden came to us through fatigue and a forgotten check. One lovely spring day, I canceled work, my body needing a break from the ongoing stress of counseling deeply depressed college students. After a timely massage, I drove to the garden store and took my time picking flowers and herbs for our tiny garden. I already had sumptuous hanging baskets of flowers on our shaded porch, rich mauve and soft peach and dark violet petunias interspersed with low-hanging, tiny white daisies. What I needed was more flowers and herbs for our tiny beds, and so I enjoyed my shopping, picking out fiery orange marigolds, butterfly-blue pincushion plants, bright fuchsia petunias, fragrant thyme, and minty catnip. God dressed in flowers that early morning, and my desire to sink my hands into the soil enlivened me.

After we returned home and gardened for an hour, our landlords arrived unannounced; we had forgotten to mail our rent check. As we gathered around our minuscule garden bed and I handed them the check, our landlady remarked how beautiful the little garden was, the plastic flower trays sitting contentedly in the beds, a reminder of where I would plant them later that afternoon. An avid gardener herself, she shared how to keep our pincushion plants alive, and her husband chimed in, giving us more tips on keeping plants well-hydrated during hot Texas summers. In that instant, a community formed, and we forgot about the stress of life for a while as we marveled at the miracle of growing food in dry Texas dirt. Then God seemed to laugh, speaking through our landlady, who said, after seeing our excitement at gardening, “Why don’t y’all extend the garden bed?”

With that holy nudge, we began the weekend in celebration, reveling in the act of creating something new. We dug up the earth, our backs and necks sore for weeks afterward from breaking up the hard, rocky clay. Our hard work paid off: we had a beautiful four-by-six plot of earth my husband filled with nutrient-rich soil, composted food scraps, and woody mulch. Our dreams were of a wild and tangled English garden filled with bright flowers like mini striped petunias and scattered patches of vegetables and herbs. We followed our hearts desire and gave in to the joy of planting seeds and watching them grow, wondering if this act of patient observation and care is how our Creator God watches over us, delighting in us as we grow strong and tall into our belovedness.

After weeks of careful tending, we enjoyed the fruits of our labors: big, juicy cucumbers; peppery cilantro; taut, red Roma tomatoes; baby lettuces; fast-growing thyme and sage; and a huge bushel of fragrant basil. Our spinach died out, but our lavender bloomed delicate purple flowers, and a large orb-weaver spider made her nest among the rosemary, where she guarded the plants against grasshoppers and mosquitoes. Our garden loved us back when we harvested more strawberries, basil, cucumbers, and herbs. Our hearts overflowed with God’s beauty and provision.

Now that autumn is here, I still begin my day the same way I did back in spring. After awakening, I step outside into the soft morning light and greet our plants, then turn on the hose and water our garden, rejoicing in the goodness of God found in our beloved creation. My love is not unfounded, nor is it unbiblical: Saint Paul preached that all of creation longs for God’s healing in the world, meaning God speaks in both human tongue and composted earth, plump juicy fruits and medicinal herbs like thyme and sage and basil. God’s imprint is everywhere.

The gift of a garden is no stranger to the writers of the Bible or to the indigenous creatives, either. Potawatomi scientist and writer Robin Wall Kimmerer echos Saint Paul when she recommends planting a garden in her book Braiding Sweetgrass. She writes, “A garden is a nursery for nurturing connection, the soil for cultivation of practical reverence. And its power goes far beyond the garden gate—once you develop a relationship with a little patch of earth, it becomes a seed itself.” Kimmerer is right. Tending the land is compassionate discipline for the Christian because caring for our beautiful, living earth matters so very much.

Our accidental garden reminds me I belong to God and to place, helping me release the lies of loneliness acquired from decades of childhood trauma and bad parenting. The act of co-creating a garden with my husband birthed hope and joy within me, and I return to it again and again in gratitude and prayer, marveling at God’s beauty and provision.

After a difficult day or a hard night, I walk outside to our small patch of earth and admire the bustling community that’s right at my feet, gratefully accepting the water, love, and care we offer it. It would not be here without our devotion. In a rush, I’m awash in transcendent knowing that this is how our holy and loving God works, too. He offers himself to us in Christ, showing us day after day that Christ is everywhere, in the garden and out on the streets, in your heart and mine.

When we look after the land with devoted concern and care, when we experience the truth that, as the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote, “Earth’s crammed with heaven / And every common bush afire with God,” when we steward God’s gifts found in the natural world, we flourish.

Jenn Zatopek is a recovering perfectionist, writer, and psychotherapist from Texas. Her work has been featured in magazines such as FATHOM, Ruminate, SheLoves Magazine, and The Glorious Table. Jenn studied theology at Brite Divinity School. When not writing, you can find her planting flowers and herbs in her tiny porch garden. Find her at theholyabsurd.com and on social media at @theholyabsurd.

Photograph © Elaine Casap, used with permission