All posts filed under: Gardening

The Day We Were Leo Tolstoy and Indiana Jones {digging through depression}

How much energy do we spend battling our doubts and disappointments rather than focusing our aim and finishing the race, the task of testifying the good news of God’s grace? Do we ignore that the enemy’s goal, as C.S. Lewis’ character, Wormwood, declared in The Screwtape Letters is this, “Do remember you are there to fuddle him”.
Oh, I was fuddled.
Have you been there, too? Muddled and fuddled and stuck in the puddling thoughts of your own making?

An Apple In Hand {A celebration, a Revelry, a Reason for Joy}

“I delight greatly in the Lord; my soul rejoices in my God.” {Isaiah 61:10} I’ll never forget when my new friend, Werku Gole, smiled as he stared into a glass of clear tap water. We were having a dinner to get to know Werku and his little wife, Hallelujah, who live and minister to their countrymen in Ethiopia. That was thirteen years ago. After Werku smiled at his water, he took a long drink and sighed. I caught him reveling. Reveling in the goodness of clean drinking water, reveling in the possibility of it. How often am I guilty of not being present in the blessings in my life? Guilty of missing even the possibility of blessing? The common goodness becomes commonplace when I fail to take notice and celebrate. A baby’s small cry or the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam, the taste of dark chocolate or the rough surface of my husband’s hands can be ho-hum, hum-drum, unnoticed, unworthy of my delight as I dart about the task of completing my schedule. Oh, …

Death and a Promise {My March Garden and Predestination}

It is early March and the garden is a graveyard. Stripped leafless, raspberry canes stand as skeleton sentinels over the raised beds that appear in the gray March morning as bleached-cedar crypts. It is a deserted graveyard of  last summer’s folly and autumn’s frosted nights. Leaves lay clung to one another in a dappled, moulded pile on wet earth; and stems, once green founts of nourishment, poke the air in haphazard directions. It all looks an architectural experiment gone awry, a verdant dystopia of what once was and what I’m left with is slime and detritus and memories. But I breathe in chilled air laced with the scents of earthy decomposition and I breathe out again and say, It is all death and a promise. That is the gardener’s life: to accept the seasons and the life and loss that they bring with a trowel in hand and hope in heart. That is the life I choose. But before that, it was the life that chose me. Before I gardened, before I carried babies in …

God’s Greatest Preoccupation {lovingkindness in hot pursuit}

“Yes, I have loved you with an everlasting love; Therefore with lovingkindness I have drawn you.” Jeremiah 31:3 Pale green spikes push through ground still winter-cold. Last fall, I purchased the bag of daffodils at the garden store. The picture on the bag promised trumpet-shaped sundrops come spring. Living in the northwest, between the Cascade and Rocky Mountain Ranges, I’ve been reminded these past twenty-one years how deeply one craves the warm life of spring after months of wintry weather. I spaded holes about my garden and plopped handfuls of the papery baubles into each one hopeful for the miracle work that happens under the snow and through the frost of winter that would eventually draw out bouquets of sunny jonquils. So on a mid-February morning, I began the ritual search for signs of life in the garden. And I found them. The daffodil spikes. I know there are hostas and bleeding hearts, early risers, too, stirring yet still beneath the soil. I know in a full sixty days the garden will be green and …