All posts filed under: Gardening

Pitiful Harvest Stew {A Parable and a Recipe, of Sorts}

I pressed my thumb through the green folds. Peas, orb-like and smooth, popped, rolled over my thumb and round the sides of the metal colander. I scrubbed carrots under running water, smelling again the fresh, spring soil that embraced the tiny seeds. I remembered the bare surface of the garden bed, brown and plain. It offered hope only by its acceptance of the seed, for at planting time there is no visible proof of the promised harvest. I held the potatoes in the palm of my hand, one at a time, felt their heft. The root that’s sustained so many. I finally grew some this year: Yukon Golds and those lovely, purple “pommes de terre”. I rubbed and scrubbed the skins, set knife-blade against them and readied them for the stew. I clipped ends off of string beans and dropped them on the rest of the vegetables. In my memory, I tasted my mom’s ham and beans, a soft and salted comfort food of my childhood that she stewed in her pressure-cooker with the jiggling, …

May{Be} I Can Know God’s Will

Pollen is everywhere! As the world buds and blossoms in spring, it also burgeons with the tiny reproductive dust that clings to bees knees and makes us sneeze. Mostly it floats on May breezes inconspicuously, unseen. However, here in the northwest, for a few weeks each May, every surface is sprinkled with a fine coat of bright yellow – pine pollen. Like ground chalk or sugar sand, the tiny grains tinge every surface with a sulfur haze as if bits of the spring sunshine have come to reside on leaf, window, windshield, even the toes of my shoes. And without fail, as campers begin to air out tents and count sleeping bags in preparation for Memorial Day weekend camp-outs, the yellow dust collects on every surface and in every outdoor corner. Then, again without fail, the forecast annually predicts rain, rain, rain. Rain that will lather and rinse away the millions of pollens and spores and the last of winter’s dirt; rain that will spoil hikes and bike trips and campfire circles. The rain came …

May{Be} I’ll Embrace the Purpose of Pain

The trowel rests still in my hand and I sit to rest my leg, the broken and healing leg that throbs throughout the day. My fingers feel the pulse in the place on my shin where they grafted new bone into the break that wouldn’t heal: it thrums angry against the still-red perfectly drawn incision scar. But I know a secret about healing that I didn’t know before the accident. In my pre-accident life, I’d never had stitches or broken a bone or required surgery. I had my health, however little I thought of it. But this secret of bone healing, of understanding just a little bit more of this “fearfully and wonderfully made” body of mine has changed my spiritual comprehension. The secret is this: the swelling heals. The inflammation brings freshly oxygenated blood to deep parts of my leg that need it most. The rhythmic pulse-beat that I touch with fingertips tells me healing is happening. Yes, it hurts. No, I don’t like it. But because of the doctor’s skillful repair, I can …