Preparing for the move to Sequim, Washington the fall of 2014, I sold my power equipment and all but a few tools. Watching my rototiller driven away was especially sad because I had planted a vegetable garden that first summer we lived in rural northern Illinois and every summer thereafter. The Holy Spirit taught me a lot while gardening, even while simply standing there watching, waiting and marveling at my little “patch of miracles”.
It’s a wonder that I ever planted a garden in the first place; what with the memory of trying to pull weeds in mom’s garden during the heat of summer, when the ground had set up like concrete. No amount of chipping away with a trowel or weed fork would get the root like mom wanted. “Aw Mom! I’m a guitar player, not a farmer! Can’t you see I have delicate hands?!?” Forty-five years later, Dad tells me weeding was one of the ways mom punished me for mouthing off. “How’d she punish you, Dad?” I asked. Continue reading