I've always been a rather stubborn gardener. Each spring, I dutifully purchase packets of seeds, determined that this year—unlike all previous years—my garden will flourish with minimal effort. The fantasy quickly fades as Michigan's unpredictable weather and my inconsistent watering schedule conspire against me.
Last summer was different. After a particularly harsh winter that left me emotionally drained, I approached my garden with unusual humility. "Lord," I prayed while turning the soil, "I can't even make these seeds grow. Help me remember my limitations."
Three weeks later, the first seedlings emerged—tiny green declarations of life that I had planted but could not actually create. I felt a childlike wonder watching them push through soil, standing as living testimonies to processes beyond my control.
One evening, while watering my fledgling vegetable patch, I noticed my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Rivera, watching from her porch. She had recently lost her husband of 60 years and rarely ventured outside anymore. Something about my awkward watering technique must have amused her, because she slowly made her way to the fence between our yards.
"You're drowning that poor basil," she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. "May I?" She held out her weathered hand for the watering can.
What followed was an impromptu gardening lesson from a woman who had cultivated vegetables longer than I'd been alive. As weeks passed, our evening garden chats became routine. She shared wisdom about plants, while gradually revealing fragments of her grief journey.
"The garden teaches patience," she told me one evening while showing me how to properly prune tomato plants. "You cannot rush grief or growth. Both require surrender to rhythms you cannot control."
I thought about her words often as summer progressed. My garden thrived under her guidance, but more importantly, Mrs. Rivera began to thrive too. The woman who had been fading into isolation found purpose in mentoring a clumsy gardener. And I, who had started the season simply wanting vegetables, instead received lessons about life's deepest rhythms.
Jesus often used agricultural metaphors—seeds, soil, harvests, and growth—to explain spiritual truths. "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit" (John 12:24). In my garden, I witnessed this paradox firsthand—how surrender precedes abundance, how death gives way to life.
The garden became holy ground that summer—not because of extraordinary miracles, but because ordinary soil revealed extraordinary grace. God spoke through vegetables and an elderly neighbor, reminding me that spiritual truths often take root in the most common elements of our lives.
When autumn came, Mrs. Rivera helped me prepare the garden for winter. As we covered plants with straw, she squeezed my hand and whispered, "Thank you for letting me help. I was withering indoors until your garden called me out."
Sometimes God's grace appears in unexpected corners—even in failed gardening attempts and neighborly interventions. In surrendering my garden, I discovered that the most beautiful growth often happens in the spaces where we acknowledge our limitations and allow others to step in.
About the Author
Charlene Trino is a writer and speaker based in Toronto, Ont. With a background in theology and a passion for vocational discipleship, she explores how faith intersects with everyday life. She is a member of Grace Community Church.