Nurturing

One of the many legacies my wonderful Daddy passed along to me is a love of growing things. Blame it on his occupation. Blame it on many afternoons in my childhood spent in the Home Depot gardening center. When I’ve visited that particular locale in recent weeks, I was astounded by how closely our olfactory senses are tied to memory. The pungent concoction of fertilizer, mulch, wet dirt, and the faintest sweet scent made me feel like I was five again. I half expected to turn around and see Daddy in one of his sun-bleached polos and tired jeans, pair of clippers strapped to his side, selecting some new flowers for a clients’ house. I was ready to help get it all out to Great White (the nickname for his pickup truck).

But I digress. I am in the process of raising some tomato and Anaheim chili pepper plants from seed, which takes considerable more effort than starters. (What can I say, I was impatient a few weeks ago when they didn’t have any starter vegetables, so I thought I’d give it a try.) The tomatoes took off almost right away. They have now been transferred from the window sill greenhouse to a small plate on the dining room table. I got pots and soil today so I can transplant them when they’re ready. But to be honest, I will be rather sad when that happens. Because right now, each little soil packet is home to three or four seedling tomatoes, each reaching for the sunlight in the nearby window. But according to the directions, I should pinch off all but one stalk to ensure the plant’s long-term growth. I don’t really want to. What if I pick the wrong one? Would it really be so crowded to let four plants grow right next to each other?

Having grown tomatoes before, I know the answer to that question darn well. If I want good fruit, each plant needs to have sufficient nutrients. If many plants are competing for the same, I will end up with some mediocre fruit instead of a high yield of great fruit.

The peppers have been another story. Almost a week after the tomatoes had graduated to new environs, the seeds still seemed dormant. I checked the packet from whence they came, which told me to be patient. I noticed some progress late last week. I brought the little greenhouse out with me on Saturday afternoon when I was spending quality time in the sun on my porch. By the end of the day, not only was there progress, there was green. And after another day spent largely outside, four of my six pepper seedlings have verifiable sprouts.

As I recall my haphazard attempts at gardening, I reflect on how much I don’t know when it comes to nurturing my plants. Or people. And I’m grateful that God knows what each of us needs, even if we don’t like the pruning or the seemingly endless winters of dormancy. For all my tears and frustrations and fists hurled at the sky (or much more common, but just as incorrect, in my heart), I remember once again that each futile attempt to convince God I need something He’s not giving me results in His gentle reminder that I am, in fact, focusing on what this world tells me I need rather than what He has graciously provided in Christ. I am trying to substitute the temporal for the eternal. How foolish.

What a beautiful mystery that even such a revelation is part of His nurturing love. I'm so glad that He is still bent on coaxing growth out of this tired little seed buried in the mire of her own little world. He alone knows what will induce me to bring Him glory. Maybe it will be sunshine. Maybe it will be rain. Most likely a combination of both. The flowers need both, after all.

But in any event, the Good Gardner knows, and also will do it. And that is a great comfort, for I know I cannot do this on my own.