Then the twins looked more closely. They found a weensy tomato, as green as a lime and no bigger than a marble. But this was grounds for hope. We peeked at it every day, blowing kisses and pouring water on its roots, and soon found it had company. Half a dozen little promises were clinging to the vines. By now it was August and I wondered if the season had passed us by. Was there time to ripen before fall? I knew of neighbors, far more experienced than I, who were giving away chunky ripe beefsteaks, big enough for five BLTs.

But we cared about our small tomatoes, and kept watching. Aurelle designated a certain cup to give them drinks with, as if continuity would increase the odds. I think the day is coming soon. We will pick our first tomato, which is as big as a clementine and slice it into three parts. One for Hope, one for Aurelle, one for me. 

It is not as if we have been robbed of tomatoes in the interim. There are several on my counter and a few in the fridge. But I did nothing to nurture them, and the brief exchange of a credit card at the store did not feel like an investment in them. This vegetable on the deck, by contrast, is ours. We might even name it. Tom. 

When children come to sewing class and get frustrated they sometimes try to wheedle me into doing their work. One girl has a misdirection strategy.

"Here, Mrs. Lori, you sew this while I go cut out more squares."

No, thanks. I know that if I do the thread tugging I gyp them of the chance to love their project. They like it, the way I like tomatoes from the store. But love grows from anticipation, doubt, watering what looks barren and being thrilled when it comes alive.

Relationships are that way too. I suppose it is within God's purview to hand out fully ripened marriages, that we simply slice and swallow. But something would be missing.