I can still hear it. My dad calling from the top of the stairs, leaning over the metal railing, asking me to go down to the garden and pick beans. I’d inwardly groan, and do that eleven year old super-clever trick of hard of hearing, and go back to my book.
I knew it was temporary.
Within minutes I’d hear him ask again, and yet this time, there was more force. I knew I was busted. I’d throw my book to the side, dog-earring the page, and would look for my old garden flip flops. Those beat up, pink and yellow sandals, with the strap that seemed to consistently fall off.
I’d grab the paper sack that my dad left by the door, throw my hair in a sloppy eleven year old best you can do pony-tail, lope down the faded blue-stained deck stairs and wander down the hill to the garden. Where my dad was waiting. We’d nod and smile and I’d set to work for the next hour plucking long green tendrils into my bag.
By the end of the day I was happy. Happy to have worked side by side with my dad — even though, back then, I would never have admitted it.
I can hear it. The kids are calling for me, leaning over the dark mocha stained deck rail, asking when the beans would be ready. I look around at the tomatoes I just planted — looking at the rows of beans just plunked into the earthy soil — and knew that within weeks we’d be harvesting our first bags of beans.
The silence was temporary.
Within minutes several eager little faces wandered down the deck stairs, across the sidewalk, and began to lean by the garden watching me work. “Mom?” Elijah would ask, “Mom, when are those seeds goina be beans?” I look up, brushing my face with my muddied hands, and tell him that it would be soon. We just need water and sun.
He looks around and next thing I know I see him trying to drag our no-kink hose down to my gardening square. “For the beans, momma,” he tells me. I look at his sweet face and nod and smile. I set back to work planting herbs, and celery, and tomatoes. All grown by my dad. Waiting for me. For my garden.
I am so grateful for my dad needing me — wanting me — to help him in the garden when I was young. His love for gardening his passed down to me which I hope passes down to my kids. There is solitude and peace that can be found in working the soil. In the shovels of dirt, the weeds pulled, and the excitement as new green shoots push upward. It’s a haven from the rush and crazy schedule and technology driven world.
Peaceful. And, I’ll admit it, I love it.
(my friend Amy, at Raising Arrow’s, wrote a wonderful post about herb gardening. Make sure to hop by and read it as well)
And, by the way, I still don’t have the biopsy results for Samuel. As soon as I get them I’ll update. Thank you for continuing to pray.