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Tag Archives: gardening


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Worship is Like Gardening

Here is my writing that was published in The Moravian Magazine.  The poem at the end is from this blog, but was also included.  

One of the things I enjoy the most is gardening, and growing food.  I’m a volunteer Master Gardener with the NDSU Extension Service.  I love growing plants, they amaze me.  They generally start from a seed, sometimes a tiny small seed, sometimes a big seed, depending on the plant. But somehow, contained in that seed, are the blueprints and the nutrients, and all the stuff it takes to make life happen.

But even though that seed has everything it needs in it, it won’t grow until it gets the proper place, time, and set of circumstances.  There is a certain signal that prompts that seed to sprout.  As a gardener, I try to replicate that signal, I try to give the seeds everything they need to start that process of sprouting.  Many seeds are easy to sprout, but others take extra circumstances.  Some seeds need to be left outside in the cold all winter before they will sprout.  Some seeds need to be burned in a fire before they will hear their signal that its time.  And others need to pass through the digestive tract of a bird or animal before the hard outer shell is dissolved, and the seed can begin its journey.

People are like seeds.  We all need the proper set of circumstances to truly grow.  Its one thing to be alive and occupy space, but its another thing to truly live life and continue to learn and grow and share ourselves with others.  Some of us seem to thrive right off the bat. Others need time, and space, and some extra help. Some of us need a big push to leave our comfort zone and reach out to others, while other people seem to live as though the whole world is their oyster.  Some people need to get burned by life, or frozen in their tracks, or even be consumed by something that seems to be the end of the line, before they are able to truly grow in life.

Many of us are born, or planted, in the same set of circumstances, yet the result of our lives can be very different.  There are things that stunt the life and growth of plants, just as there are things that will stunt human growth too.   In 1Corinthians 3: 6-9 (NIV), Paul tell us “I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow.  The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor.  For we are co-workers in God’s service; you are God’s field, God’s building.”  

If you put a plant that needs a lot of sun in a shady location, that plant will never reach its full potential.  It won’t get as big, and it may not bloom or produce fruit.  However, if you place a shade loving plant in an area that receives full sun, it will probably burn up and die.  We are like that too.  If you stifle someone’s ability to grow and improve and learn, they will never reach their full potential.  They may never bloom or produce the fruit that God wants us to produce.  But give that same person the opportunities and tools they need, and they may grow so much you’ll barely recognize them!  There are some people who love to work behind the scenes, if you thrust them into the spotlight, you may lose them forever.  We all have different personalities that demand different scenarios for life, just like each plant has certain requirements for it to grow as well.  I think that God gives each one of us a talent, a passion, or a cause that we can use to glorify God.  Just like every plant in the garden has a purpose, every person in our churches has a purpose too.  We need to encourage each other to grow and use those talents for the greater good of our communities.

There’s nothing better than talking to God in my garden.  I can spend hours just being thankful for everything that God has not only given me personally, but everything He has given us all.  I contemplate things I have read; blogs and personal stories, and ask God how this is relevant to my life, and our lives in the Church.  How can I be a blessing  to others?  I feel called to help feed people.  I grow as much food as I possibly can in my half acre yard.  I grow for my husband and I, our adult children, and their friends and family.  I grow for my friends and neighbors, and I grow for the local Emergency Food Pantry.  Our Master Gardening group picks up and donates produce all summer, and that makes me feel like God is using me to bless others. For I was hungry and you fed me.  Some people don’t know how to grow food, some people live in apartments where they don’t have the space.  But I have a garden, and I have a dream to grow more every year; to have more to give away every season.

 

THE SONG OF SPRING

As the sun gains strength and holds its head boldly in the sky,

The sheets of white slowly melt, dripping their nutrients into the soil beneath.

The skeletons of trees form new buds, and tiny fragile shoots sprout forth from the ground.

The beautiful melody of birdsong grows into a glorious choir.

Soft, gentle breezes blow into hurricane force winds,

Bringing the warmth, and blowing away the old,

The dead,

The paper thin husks of last year’s bounty, shriveled into nothing.

Rebirth, the earth renews her fresh bouquet,

Her glamorous green wardrobe that feeds her children.

Such is the entrance of spring-

God’s glorious garden.

We helpers rejoice, wanting nothing more

Than to feel the living soil in our hands.

The seeds that wait patiently under the ground for the sun to shine on them,

And tell them that it’s time,

It’s time to begin anew.

They also rejoice and grow heartily, singing praises to heaven.

The flowers will open, they will bear fruit, and it will be good,

Just as God intended.

For the Earth sings for her Creator, and we are invited

To sing harmony.

 

 


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It’s 90 degrees, on May 5th, in North Dakota.

This spring has been one of the weirdest weather years in my life. The winter was mild, it felt like spring in February and March, and then cooled down again. And here we are today, at 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

12795257_10208695979944951_6450639887248248609_n (High tunnel picture with side rolled up.)

I’m a gardening fanatic. I took the Master Gardener classes at NDSU awhile back, and I just love growing plants. I have a little greenhouse, a high tunnel, and a basement full of grow lights. (Don’t worry, there’s nothing illegal being grown here ever!)  I have over 70 houseplants that live inside all winter.  I have a banana tree on my dryer, and a cactus that touches the ceiling, both in my laundry room.  Am I the crazy plant lady?  Maybe. But its an inherited disease.  My mom’s banana tree lives in her dining room.

 


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The Fall of Summer

As the leaves turn from green to yellow to red, the fruits ripen, and the chipmunks are busy gathering their winter supplies, my heart saddens, knowing the joyous days of summer’s heat are being cut short.  The blue jays, with their clever calls mimicking the sound of a hovering hawk, fight over the acorns with the squirrels. The yellow jackets appear more intensely, hungry for every fallen apple, and ready to bite every intruder.  The luscious season of tomatoes ripening, juicy goodness only available in the late summer, is almost over.  The bags and bags of them in the entry way, waiting for me to do something.

The first nip of frost blackens my squash and pumpkins leaves, and they ripen quickly, forced into readiness by their natural enzymes.  “Hurry up, everyone!” the frost seems to say, “Your time is almost done”.  The zucchini plants make one final attempt to produce more fruit, and the yellow squash does the same, sending out new blossoms, calling to the bees. The bees are also in a hurry, to bring more nectar back to the hive for their winter syrup of life.

The wild animals grow heavier coats. My chickens grow in their heavy under feathers, getting ready for the cold.  The air in the evenings has a crispness to it, a chill, and the fire warms our hands and feet.  The leaves crunch underfoot.  The flowers are faded, turning to stalks. The seeds blow on the wind, their ingenious parachutes and umbrellas of fuzz setting them adrift in the sky.  Like the pioneers, they set off, not knowing where they will land, but they will try to make a life wherever that is.

The geese and ducks fly overhead.  Going south, who can blame them?  The Monarch butterflies too, migrating back to their warmer climate for survival.  Their instinct pulls them into the migration patterns their ancestors followed for generations, and now they follow as well, creating an amazing pattern of life.

Every fall, I add another number to my chronological age.  The numbers don’t really bother me like I thought they would, I still feel the same inside.  An old neighbor of mine once told told me that the years go by faster the older you get.  This scares me, because they go by so quickly already.

The winter comes every year, and every year it catches me off guard.  I’m not ready.  Not ready for the cold or the wind, or the snow or the ice.  I wish for the warm nights of summer, fireflies dancing in the grass, and planting.  Planting everything, working the garden to see what will grow, what will fail, and what will turn into something extraordinary from a seed, some dirt, and some water; the promise of what is yet to come.  The miracle of life and death, and rebirth; of hibernation and migration, the circle of life.


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The Love of Gardens

10428087_10207352175110670_1916599059228317282_nMy favorite thing about spring, summer, and fall, is my garden.  Well, gardens.  I have several flower gardens, and small plots of different things, but my vegetable garden is my prize.  I love being able to grow my own food and share it with my children and their friends, and my friends and neighbors.  I believe that we are meant to care for the Earth and nurture the soil and its inhabitants.  I am an organic gardener, I use no man made chemicals.  I use my labor, and my love instead.  I do use some organically approved insecticidal soap if the need arises, but I normally don’t have an issue with bugs because I have chickens.  Chickens eat the bugs before they can damage my crop.  The chickens will eat a little out of my garden, but I offer them veggies and fruits they love in a designated area, so they usually just look in that spot if they want a tomato, or some over ripe raspberries or cucumbers. I put netting around my lettuce patch, but that is the chicken’s favorite. If I want any, I need to keep them out!

 I always grow more than I need so I have some to offer to others.  I use a heavy mulching method so I have very few weeds, and I can just enjoy my time looking at the plants and picking the harvest when its ready. Nothing tastes as good as vegetables right from the garden!

I don’t get to this blog as often in the summer, since I love being outdoors, and I try to spend my free time enjoying the short summer we have here in North Dakota.  But today is a rainy day, and my laptop was calling.

I noticed that in the past year, more people from Brazil have read my blog than people from any other country.  I want to say “hello!” and welcome my South American readers!  I appreciate you, and I’d love to get to know you.  If any of you are gardeners, or small business owners as well, I’d love to hear about it.  In fact, I really love getting to know people from other countries and cultures, and I’d love it if you would drop me a line, and tell me about yourself!


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Thanks, Grandpa!

phone 028Grandpa’s favorite flowers had always been hollyhocks.  I’m not sure why, but he loved them.  They lined his garden and his yard, and some even grew out in the trees.  We, my siblings and cousins and I, would explore the trees looking for peacock feathers from Grandma’s prized peacocks in the summer.  Those birds had such an enchanting, sad, mournful call.  They were beautiful, but seeing them everyday made them much more ordinary than they really were.  I still to this day have some of those feathers.

I think all the grandkids loved being at Grandpa and Grandma’s house.  Grandma and my aunt, who lived with them and helped them, and eventually took care of them in their old age,  made homemade cookies, and sometimes Grandpa would sing and dance in the kitchen with the old cook stove sitting next to the modern electric range.  The dishes were done by hand after every meal, and Grandma had certain jobs that were done on specific days of the week, probably just like her mother had done years before.  Grandpa cut all the wood to heat the house, I don’t remember any other heating system, and there were lines hanging across the ceiling in the living room to hang clothes to dry in the winter.  I loved helping operate the ringer washer tub, where we washed clothes just like they did in the olden days.  He was a hunter, trapper, and farmer, and loved being able to help him.  I felt valued by all my grandparents, but especially by my two grandfathers.  My paternal grandfather died when I was only 6, and I know I was loved deeply by him, but my maternal grandfather made a very deep impression me as a child, and does still to this day.  He was very devoted to God, and lived his life the best way he thought he could.

Grandpa died when I was 17.  He hadn’t been “here” for a long time, and the last conversation I can remember having with him was one from when I was 14.  Grandpa was my male role model, mostly because I had always felt like my dad was disappointed with me,  since I was the firstborn, and I ended up being a girl.  (And to make it worse, I was a tom boy, rubbing salt in the wounds.)  But Grandpa loved me for who I was, and I loved playing baseball, and hearing stories about when he was a little boy.  I even had an empty chew can that Grandma had put raisins in, so I could have a chew just like Grandpa did.  I’ve been told I look like him, and yes, I can see the resemblance.

Fast forward twenty years or so; I’m a happily married mother of two young children.  My husband and I have moved to a small town in North Dakota, and are enjoying owning our own home.  The existing flower garden in the yard was very overgrown, and full of white flowers.  I dug and planted and dug and planted, trying to get rid of the white and add some color.  I enlisted the help of my knowledgeable elderly neighbor ladies to know which of these unfamiliar plants were weeds and which were flowers.  After a few years of gardening something strange happens; my yard erupts with hollyhocks.  I’m not talking one or two seeds that drifted in on the wind, or a pod dropped by a bird in a one area, but an actual eruption. 

I had hollyhocks in every corner of the yard, every crack of the sidewalk, and every space of the yard that wasn’t mowed.  They were every color, every shape, and every size.  Giddy, I let them all grow.  My yard looked like Grandpa’s.  I told my mom about what happened, and she told me Grandpa must have sent them.  I had never considered this, and this thought made me very happy.  After a few years though, I had to start pulling them out.  They seeded and reseeded and I pulled hundreds of plants.  I now leave about 20 of them or so growing all around the yard in different nooks and crannies.  They make me smile.   And they remind me of Grandpa.