From a seed

Saturday morning we’re on our way to City Hall to vote in the local election. We’re discussing the candidates when he asks, “Have you ever seen an artichoke blossom?”

In literary terms, this would be called a non sequitur, but it makes perfect sense in context. Especially if you know a little back story.

George and I have a complementary relationship. He loves to garden, and I love to photograph and eat fresh produce. (Perfect division of labor, wouldn’t you say?) Displayed on our kitchen wall are four photos I took at the Kroger Art Gallery back in April of 2008. I wanted a sage green palette, and that’s why two of the four feature artichokes, but honestly, I might have chosen them regardless. I love the subtle shade shifts, the layers and shapes, the texture. Really, there’s nothing not to love about an artichoke.

Earlier that morning while I was still in my jammies, waking up with the help of my daily bucket o’ latte, George and Jacob spent an hour or so at the community garden. (Again, division of labor. We have this thing down.) When he saw the artichoke blossoms, he knew my camera and I would want some of that action. Thus the aforementioned question, and thus — upon completion of civic duty — a quick swing by the house, camera grab, and return to the garden.

Exit vehicle. Enter a happy place.

I look through the camera lens, and life pauses. A moment distills into a single frame, defining the edges of beauty, and inviting me to slow down and see deep. As I wander this paradise, happily snapping away, George and Jacob chat with other gardeners.

This is a “community” garden in the truest sense of the word. Individuals manage their own plots, but there are also shared areas for herbs, fruit trees, berries, and grapes. The culinary college comes here for fresh herbs, and twenty percent of everyone’s harvest goes to a local food bank.

I meander over to the curbside where some rosemary poses for a portrait, and I spot George and Robert.

They’ve never met before but easily slip into shop talk, and both of them know a thing or two. George is the compost expert, and Robert, well, he grew up on a farm in North Carolina. This gardening gig is his native soil. (He also has the best hair ever.)

Like many of the garden’s patrons, Robert comes often and lingers long, savoring every aspect of the process. He’s about to leave for the day, but when he notices my camera, he asks, “Did you see the grapes?”

I didn’t. He leads the way.

I click and he talks — about how he’s training these vines and his plans for pruning, about current methods in Napa Valley but his decision to stick to the old way — and his passion animates his words and ignites his smile.

The grape vines aren’t part of Robert’s personal plot. He cultivates them because he wants to, for their intrinsic worth and beauty, for his own and his neighbor’s benefit. For love.

“This is where good wine begins,” he says, and the breeze whispers a sweet amen.

I understand why he loves to be here. Why George loves it, too. Common ground, gently tended by sons of Adam and daughters of Eve, it feels right. Holy. Perhaps we should take off our shoes.

We admire berries and plums on our way back to the plots, and that’s where we meet Mary Ann.

This is Mary Ann’s first garden. Ever. She bought the seeds at a nursery, and she comes every day to check their progress, but she laughs as she explains that she forgot to use labels, and now she can’t remember what some of the plants are.

George and Robert identify them all for her, and then they lift some leaves on her cucumber plant and say, “You need to harvest these.”

Mary Ann is all amazement, and she jumps up and down, giddy with wonder and delight. About a dozen perfect cucumbers wait to be picked, and even though she’s come every day, she’s only noticed blossoms. She hasn’t looked beneath the leaves.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says. “I just bought these seeds and planted them a month ago, and there are already cucumbers? From a seed? I can’t believe it!” And she dances in the aisle, right there between garden plots. She laughs, and we all laugh with her, and it feels like church ought to feel. This dancing for sheer joy, because we bring so little — a mere seed of faith — and all this mystery, it explodes into life, green and growing and filling the earth with fruit.

It’s there. I know it is. Waiting for us to look beneath the leaves of fear, distrust, and cynicism. True Community, waiting to be discovered. Unseen Life, waiting to erupt into dancing. Nascent Faith, waiting to sink into good soil, put down roots, and blossom a hundred fold.

But how do a bunch of bruised and broken souls become the living, breathing Body of Christ? How do we get from dry and lifeless to this feeding of five thousand?

As we’re driving away, I snap a photo from the car.

Grateful prayer. It’s so simple. Kind of like a seed.

Sounds like the perfect starting place to me.

{If you’re interested,
you can see more
community garden photos
here.}

* * *

Giving thanks in community for (#441 – 459):

new mercies every morning
first home group, the promise of community
fresh produce piled on the kitchen counter
Luke and Jacob reading on the deck
basil leaves
homemade pizza
Dad’s patience
Mom’s smile
this house becoming home
lovely neighbors
meeting God on the pages of His Word
the way beauty can break a heart
how well he knows me
books
color
rain
Grace’s baby bump
unshakable promises