Gardening is for optimists.  Several times a week someone mentions the seedlings they have planted, or the raised bed they are digging in, or the tiny sprouts pushing through the dirt.

Last year was the pinnacle of my history as a gardener. I came home with baskets bursting with carrots, ripe tomatoes, corn still in the husk, pumpkins, onions, lettuce, and green peppers. It was astonishing. I even found one more bag of tomato sauce last month from my very own produce in the freezer.

This year is off to a slower start, but hopefully by mid June there will be indications of green in a black backdrop to pray over. God willing. 

The bounty did not happen without effort. I got so filthy after ninety minutes in the garden I left evidence on the seat driving home. And it was only a mile. My fingernails were black and my forehead was sweaty. 

I loved it. 

Some days I would tell myself I would only stop by for twenty minutes, enough to keep up with the weeds and pick a mix for lunch. But time would slip away and I would realize an hour had passed. 

When relationships begin to bear fruit time loses its power to discourage, or taunt. My twins are graduating from elementary school and a parent is making a slide show of baby pictures. I went hunting for photos of each of them, since two in one would be a slam dunk clue to the identity. Wandering in the memories of fourteen years ago catapulted me out of today and into a time that is mushy around the edges. Little sleep, less intellectual activity, an abundance of sweetness. And laundry.

It was a way to bring those tender feelings out of safe keeping, and feel them again.