The black dirt made lovely pies, but growing vegetables really made it shine. When we moved to North Dakota, my parents began to garden. Peas and greens came first, showering us with spring in every bite. Pulling the first stalk of rhubarb, the crunchy tang shocked every last wisp of winter right out of my bones, later mom made pie and dad made sauce, both melted me into the warmth of summer.
But it was the carrots that stole my heart, their bright orange emerging from the dirt like a gift straight from the sun. Scraping off what dirt I could, polishing them orange against my jeans or shirt, tasting like the only food I could possibly need to be happy in this world. String beans, corn, beets all could wait to be cooked, cucumbers pickled, but carrots eaten straight from the earth still make my heart sing.
There is something special about food planted, weeded, watered, gathered with our own hands, the life of the world still brimful and nourishing, quenching deep hunger and giving strength for the journey.
In the midst of winter, the seed catalogs burst through the snow, harbingers of hope and the promise of spring. How many kinds of squash will fit in our garden? Which kind of tomato will grow best in this northern climate and how early should we start them? There was a limit to how many trays of seedlings could rest inside our house, waiting for the earth to receive them. The choices were hard, but important. Somehow, my parents seemed to know how much we would eat, not just in the time of harvest, but through the long winter. Even as we ate the vegetables, we froze or canned them to sustain us through the winter.
The first year we grew corn, mom sent us to the garden with dad. She got the soup kettle of boiling water ready while dad showed us how to pick our first ears of corn in their beautiful green, silky clothes. We husked them into the compost pile, clambered into the kitchen to plop them into water and skim them through melted butter on the way to our mouths.
Isaiah hears God saying it this way, “For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.” (Isaiah 55:10- 11, NRSV)
Mom died last year, a couple years after our dad did. About a week before she left, she told me that Dad was on his way to get her. She said they were going home together as we sat at the dining room table they shared for so many years.
Later, I found one jar of pear sauce, made from their tree. My brother and I held the jar, savoring its golden grace as we opened it and with the first bite, felt its life coursing through us. For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress; instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle; and it shall be to the Lord for a memorial, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off. (Isaiah 55:12-13, NRSV)
In the midst of sorrow and loss we found joy in a jar, unfurling memories of things past and things yet to come. God still with us, loving us in and through all things.
Each month a member of the Cook County Ministerium will offer Spiritual Reflections. This week our contributor is Pastor Beth Benson of the First Congregational Church, United Church of Christ.
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