The Garden

It was so sunny and hot, in fact it felt like there was a heat wave. The old man’s rough, scarred and bony hands were gloved by burned, overworked sundrenched skin. Every day he would get up and go to work at a job that was truly killing him.

I loved to watch him leave and I got so excited when he would come home. He drove what was probably the last real, steel Dodge truck ever made. No, not some aluminum or fiberglass piece of junk, but real BETHLEHEM STEEL production grade metal Dodge painted a camouflage green, only without the camouflage. I can’t explain it, it was amazing. Not the truck, the time, the Epoch. It was a time of innocence, and education, and growth. I was a seed planted, watered, watched over. It was THE time that made me who I am. Every bit of who I am. Everything about that time the barn, the hay, the family, the neighbors, the garden had an remarkable yet unremarkable affect on me. Sleeping in a garage with three brothers, and spying, hearing him pray that each one of us and our sister would be protected in body, mind and spirit. It was great, I can smell it now.

I remember going out to the garden with the heat of the day beating on me and the old man, and he never complained ever. Oh sure, he would stop his work periodically and lean against a fence post and sigh a big deep sigh. I do that to this day and EVERYONE thinks I am sad or depressed, or something. People don’t get it, I am just conditioned, I am not sad I am breathing and I am smelling because the old man said I should. I do what my master taught me, I sigh and I return to my work. That day, that hot, late spring day, he told me how his dad taught him to plant tomatoes and corn and cucumbers, oh and radishes. It was great. I learned what it took, and what timing was all about. You see you don’t just throw seed on the ground or stick it in holes, you prep and you pray and you wait. Then you plant just before a full moon and your seeds will germinate more readily. I did it that way year after year after year, and each year they would grow and I would harvest and every time I picked a vegetable I felt joy, real joy. Oh yeah, each year, I planted and I prayed. I prayed that God, the maker of heaven and earth would say the word that would cause that seed to germinate, and drink in the earth and the water, and He does.

On that hot day, the old man made me cut rows by hand with a hoe and it seemed like it took hours. Row after row, we were chopping the earth making the soil soft and ready for a seed. He promised me that if I would ask God to help, He would help. I remember it like it was two days ago, he said to me, make a hole as deep as your finger up to your second knuckle (I had shorter hands then). Do that every 10 inches in the row. Put three seeds in each hole. Now we will water it. “There is nothing more we can do now” he would say. We would then almost ritualistically bow our heads and turn it over to the next Gardner and we knew He would always do what was right. What a huge blessing to have that time.

I mentioned the heat, because it is really integral to my story, and yours. I mentioned the old man’s hands because they were exposed to the heat day after day, month after month and year after year. The heat comes out of nowhere, and literally scorches you. You sweat, you tire, you thirst, you groan and you wipe your brow with your handkerchief (I know that because that is what the old man would do as he sighed and leaned against that fence). But as he told me that day, “Bub, if you will watch the ground where you placed the seed, and if you will water, weed and pray every day, the real Master gardner will say the word and make that seed crack open under the cool earth and out will spring a small root, and a sprout and then fruit.” But, he told me, “without the heat, there will be no death, and without the death, there will be no life.” There can be no fruit.

More than 40 years have passed since that day, two days ago, so much pain has come and gone in so many lives. So much anger from this world. So much heat. In the mornings, it doesn’t slow you down. It is cool and refreshing, so you don’t think about that heat coming. You feel like this is how it will always be, quiet, cool and restful. But before you even realize it, that old truck is coming up the lane and, turning into the gravel driveway, brakes squeaking and it dawns on you, that it is the heat of the day and you missed the morning. Worse yet, you realize the real work is about to begin.

Two years ago, I remember thinking that things seemed good or warm. I thought of that leathery old man and his lessons. But I complained, and I groaned and I wiped my brow and then I realized, it’s only morning, the real work is about to begin. I could hear the gravel under the truck tires and I knew I was about to get down to my chores. I wish I had recognized it earlier, I could have found so much joy in planting and waiting and praying.

In my house, in Carmichael, in California and in America, it is now late afternoon and the heat is beating down. Friends are fatigued and tempted to turn from us, and we from them, and many will. It is hot and we are looking for a post to lean on and a handkerchief with which to wipe our brow and cease from our labor, but the sun is shining and the old man would not allow it. “Pick up the hoe now” he would say and let’s ready that dirt for the seed and the seed for the word that will be spoken. And when it is spoken, the moon will pull as only it can, and the sun will shine down and the water will soften the hard seed and there will be a crack and a root and a sprout. And soon, very soon there will be fruit and a harvest and joy, real joy. I know this because the old man promised and I heard him talking to the next Gardner and I know He will always do what is right.