Failed peonies, tiny tomatoes, and God’s invitation into joy
I have always wanted to grow peonies. The color, the fragrance, the impossibly tight bud that bursts into layers upon layers of petals. What’s not to love?
I am bit of a serial over-thinker, but gardening has somehow become the one area of my life where I am consistently laid back. Instead of the usual meticulous research, I tend to just plant what I like and see how it goes.
I have learned some things the hard way by this method. For example, if the instructions say a plant needs full sun, do not plant it underneath the overlapping branches of your 100-year-old ash trees because “Oh, wouldn’t it look nice there, and maaaaybe the fact that that area is in complete shade won’t really matter that much” (Sorry, salvia…). Or if a plant needs constant moisture, don’t plant it in the sunshine in the high desert and expect to get away with watering it every other day (I will never give up on you, hydrangeas…).
So with this novice-level knowledge firmly in hand, I knew that peonies were not going to work in the spot I had imagined them along the sidewalk of our tree-covered yard. Until I came across a type of peony that grows best in partial morning sunlight. Jackpot!
I planted it in the perfect place, following the watering and fertilization instructions to the letter. But for the rest of the summer, there was no growth, no blooms, not even a new leaf, nada. So when it withered away as the weather cooled, I just chalked it up to (yet another) learning experience and rushed to plant some bulbs at the last minute just before the first hard freeze, as is my custom.
This March, the tulips and daffodils came up, but nothing from the peony. The weeds seemed to be growing well enough, I thought, as I pulled them out of the ground in the area all around where our peony was supposed to be growing. A day later I walk out to greet a friend, and there it was. A miracle shoot coming out of the ground right where the hopeless peony was planted.
One morning a month later on the first sunny, warm day of summer after weeks of cool rainfall, the first two buds opened up revealing the most gorgeous peony blooms. I’d say that I was embarrassingly excited, but I’m actually not even embarrassed about it. It felt like a tiny, front yard miracle. I pointed them out to any passing neighbor who would listen. The kids and I checked on them every day, and cut the last few blooms to bring inside.
We also planted tomatoes in a small raised bed in the backyard. Last year, we harvested exactly one teeny weeny tomato, and we were so proud of ourselves that we sliced that tiny tomato into six microscopic pieces so we could all enjoy the fruit of our labors. I have never had so much fun veritably failing at something in my whole life. It may have only been one tomato, but cultivating it was good, joyful work.
This summer, I figured that after such a modest “harvest” last year, there was no where to go but up. I put the tomato plant in sunshine (see, I’m learning!) and combined with the unusually large amounts of rainfall we’ve had this year, it grew to the tallest tomato plant we’ve ever had, so tall I had to tie the tomato cage to the fence to keep it from bending under the weight of the plant. I was just sure big, red, juicy tomatoes wouldn’t be far behind, but August rolled around and still there was nary a sign of a tomato. I sighed and wrote it off as yet another learning experience. For a few weeks, I barely bothered watering it.
Then last week I walked past the tomato plant and noticed a tiny green start of a tomato. I stared at it in surprise, then called all the kids over to see it. They jumped up and down in celebration (even the ones who refuse to eat tomatoes). Yesterday, Henry and I counted 12 of them growing strong on that scraggly plant. We may be racing the first frost to actually enjoy them, but we are officially on tomato watch at our house.
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This summer as I care for our fledgling novice’s garden, the thing I have been reflecting on most is not the sign of hope or the picture of resurrection offered by growing things (though they certainly are such a picture, praise God).
Rather, I have found myself filled in new ways with wonder at belonging to a God who is ever extending his hand toward us, inviting us to enter into his infinite joy through the things he has made.
In the beginning, in God’s garden, he gave humans the mandate to care for the Creation we are members of. In the fall, the ground was cursed along with humanity; we are not the only ones groaning for redemption. Yet the descriptions throughout the psalms of trees clapping, seas roaring, and the hills singing for joy at the coming of the King remind us that just as Creation broke in the garden, Creation will join in the feast as well when heaven and earth are made one again and God’s healing covers the whole cosmos.
As we live in anticipation of that day, God has continues to give his children the good gift of tending and cultivating what he has made, opening the door to know and be formed by his joy in ways that will echo into eternity. How very, very good he is. How kind. How abundant in his desire to make himself known. The whole earth is filled with his glory.
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