The Garden

There's an old hymn, "I Come to the Garden Alone", that I have, respectfully, never understood.

For starters, the words reference "dew" and "roses" and use other word pictures that I don't typically embrace. I do like the refrain, but probably not for the right reasons: it is fun and sing-songy in that old church tent revival sort of way. I sing in an obedient I-wish-I-felt-this-song-more-deeply fashion. I see the younger crowd spout off the lyrics, but the older folk...mmmm... they are my favorite to watch. While everyone is busy singing, their eyes glass over with tears. The tune transports them to another time. They harmonize. They reach deep within their lungs and pull out their best Sunday-dressed notes. It's something to watch.

It's pretty clear to me why I have never understood this hymn. Unlike older generations who were intimate with the earth, who grew up with a little dirt under their fingernails, I am several generations away from this earth-touching population. 

I've planted herbs before in pots. That doesn't really count.

But this year, I was hit with a wave of domesticity that made me want to connect deeply with my past. I planted a garden. 

It sounds romantic to plant a garden. It has its moments. 

Purchasing seeds. Ordering yards of garden soil mix. Patting little seeds in the ground and showering them with the hose. 

To date, the garden hasn't been too much of a burden. But I haven't felt like a true gardener yet, either. I recall my mother using two hands to hold a basket pregnant with squash and beans and all manner of vegetable when she visited her garden. My garden's yield pales in comparison.

I have some leaf lettuce that is doing extremely well. The radishes are touch-and-go. But last night the kohlrabi was ready. The bulbs on this turnip-like plant were full. I reached to pull it out, and it didn't give, not at first. Looked like this was going to be a two-hander. I used both hands and gently, but firmly pulled. It yielded, along with a clump of rich garden soil. 

The one who farms for a living may find this to be old-hat, but I'm a novice and still in the garden-smitten stage. There was something so very, very satisfying about pulling up that kohlrabi. It ignited the senses. I smelled the earth as it clung to the roots. I felt the weight of the fruit ease as I shook off the extra soil. I felt the smooth skin of the kohlrabi and marveled at the many different shades of green a garden can offer. It was a sensual experience. Almost spiritual.

As I put the fruit in my harvest bowl (aka- "colander"), I walked back to the house with a feeling of immense satisfaction. I grew something. 

Months ago I bought the plants, put them in the soil that I ordered, laid them in the raised bed that my husband made and watered them. My part in the life of this kohlrabi was hardly "creator"; I'll settle for "maintainer" or "watcher". But I felt very much like a sub-creator. God allowed me to join hands with Him in bringing this kohlrabi to be in my garden. 

My, oh my.

For dinner my husband enjoyed a side dish of freshly cut kohlrabi. It was no hymn, but it transported him to his youth: He'd take a paring knife to his garden, cut fresh spring onions or kohlrabi and eat it right there with his feet still in the dirt.

The next weeks I'm waiting for something special. It's the equivalent of the grand finale fireworks on the fourth of July: the tomatoes. They're starting to turn color. 

I'm downright giddy.