It’s June. In NY, gardening zone 5, that means it’s time to plant. Seeds or starts, they need to get into the ground before it’s too late. And as I hastily dug holes for the tomatoes and cabbage today- the ones Charlotte and I started from seed on an old craft table under a sunny window and nurtured through a move into an ancient window frame outside when it was still cold enough for winter barn coats and wool socks- and as the children made noise, and mess, and joyful chaos all around me, the irony of these words kept running through my mind on repeat:
Plant, before it’s too late.
Plant Seeds. Before it’s too late.
And then I caught sight of my eighteen year old son, all the machismo and pride of an eighteen year old son, who knows where he’s going and wants to get there fast. Just then he was returning from a run, and I prayed that I had done my job well- as his mom, the gardener, the planter of seeds. I’ve seen enough in these eighteen years as a mom to know that not all seeds I plant will bear fruit right away. I just pray that when the time comes, those seeds will sprout and emerge- strong roots, vibrant fruit.
I finished my planting for today. I have the dirt under my fingernails, the tired back and some insignificant vegetable starts to show for it. But it will be a long time before I’m finished with the real planting. I’m glad for that. I sat down in the grass, pulled off my yellow boots and pulled the baby onto my lap. I spoke to him of his worth. He stuck a dirty finger in my mouth. I whispered that God had a plan for his life. He grinned an impish grin, as if he already knew. I sang Jesus Loves Me, and he clapped pudgy dimpled hands together. And I held on a for just a moment longer when he tried to break free. And then I let him go.