Yesterday’s heat caught me off guard—when we backed the car out of the cool garage to head to church, the windows instantly fogged up. It felt like stepping straight into summer.
We’ve been out in the garden again because of the warmup—pulling dry, stubborn weeds, clearing out what didn’t make it, and tossing brittle plants into a burn pile that’s grown bigger than I expected. It’s not the beautiful part of gardening—but it’s the necessary part.
Benj fixed a fence on the west line where the cows broke in last fall, while the girls and I worked the earth. And as I worked, I kept thinking about how different things are from where we started.
Twenty years ago, we were attempting our first garden in town, surrounded by tall maple trees. They were beautiful—but they took everything. Sunlight, water, nutrients… it felt like no matter how hard we worked, nothing really wanted to grow except maple shoots.
That season was hard on me. I would optimistically start little seedlings in the house on our old radiator covers, watering them faithfully and watching them grow—only to see everything wither and die once we planted them in the garden.
We bought our first home from Benj’s grandparents, and they had once grown a lovely garden in that same spot—but that was long before the trees had grown tall and taken over.
I wanted to feed my family well. We both wanted to grow something of our own. But instead, we found ourselves receiving more than giving—grateful for friends and family who shared from their gardens when ours came up empty.
I don’t think I fully appreciated that at the time. But I do now.
Because today, standing in this wide open, sun-filled garden—with trellises the girls and I built from old cattle panels, fertile soil deep and enriched with years of compost and manure, and raised beds ready for seeds—I can see it differently.
Even the seeds we’re planting this year tell that story.
I have beans from one friend and marigolds from another—seeds they saved from their own gardens and passed along to us. I still think that’s one of the coolest things… that something grown and cared for can be shared, planted again, and continue feeding others.
It’s a good reminder to me that we don’t make things grow—we’re simply given the chance to tend what God provides.
There are seasons when you’re the one planting.
And there are seasons when you’re the one being fed.
“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9
This season feels like tending again. Preparing. Trusting that what we plant will grow—not just for us, but for the people we get to feed.
And I just want you to know… being part of your table, in whatever small way we can, means more to us than I can really put into words.
Gratefully,
Leah
