In my book, In God’s Garden (a devotional for gardeners) I wrote:
The word garden conjures up all kinds of green images, of things growing beautifully. When we walk through the garden gate, we anticipate sweet air and enchantment. We expect to see order of the most pleasing kind…
I need to revise that statement today, because of what’s been happening in my potager, my vegetable garden. Something—a raccoon?—has been stripping the tomato plants of all tomatoes, no matter what size or color. No chance for any to ripen. This may be the first summer that we don’t eat any of our own tomatoes. Whatever is doing the damage, it doesn’t seem interested in the squash, cucumbers, beans or greens. Not yet, anyway. I walk into this garden now, expecting more disappointment and frustration. But then I look to the left and see the half-dozen blossoms on the rose bush John gave me five years ago. It’s called “Heaven on Earth.” I put my nose into one of the blossoms and inhale deeply. A gift. A consolation. Sweet air and enchantment after all.
