Grow In Joy

This plot of soil may look unremarkable, but it once held the rewards of much labor. Tucked behind the barn, this garden was Dad's escape, his therapy, his joy. While we were solicited to assist with his endeavors, it clearly belonged to him. At the first hints of spring, he would begin plotting and planning while thumbing through pages of the Gurney's catalog. After long days at work, he would unwind by tugging weeds or hunting for green beans. He would write sermons in his head with his hands in the dirt.
My siblings and I were less than enthused by the various tasks associated with such a large garden. My least favorite activity was following behind the tractor while Dad unearthed potatoes for our buckets. I did not enjoy shucking corn or shelling peas. I didn't understand why I must weed the okra when I would not be eating it. I longed to lounge in the house away from the sun and bugs. My brothers expressed their

displeasure by assaulting each other with dirt clods. We had the opportunity to spend countless hours of quality time together, much to our dismay.
Dad took such pleasure in sharing the bounty of his garden with others. Even after we'd grown and left the farm, we continued to benefit from his toils. We all had freezers filled with bags of corn and pantries stocked with canned homemade dill pickles. There is no other salsa that compares to Dad's.
I now find myself wishing for those quiet hours among the neat rows of plants. During recent days while Dad has been dealing with such pain, I've closed my eyes and pictured him crouched beside tomato vines.  I wish he could experience the peace and calm of those summer days. I wish his only concern was where to move the sprinkler or which kind of squash to plant.
"I think that if ever a mortal heard the voice of God, it would be in a garden at the cool of the day."
-F. Frankfort Moore