Sometimes, we do not harvest what we planted.
This is, I think, one of the most important lessons of gardening, of growing anything from seed: that what you eventually harvest is not always in your control.
When we moved into our home three years ago (in fact, our third “home-iversary” is coming up) we inherited a very well-loved place. The garden, in particular, contained very spent soil from years of mixed use and no little benign neglect.
We have done our best, but the garden cannot always rise to the level of our hopes. We do what we can to naturally boost the soil without completely replacing it, adding compost and kitchen scraps, and encouraging the proliferation of intricate ecosystems. In some ways it has worked: the population of earthworms has skyrocketed and our crop of hardy peas, beans, greens, and herbs is usually lush and beautiful. But some of the heaviest-feeding summer plants (corn, tomatoes, peppers, squash) often turn out delicious, but woefully undersized. They just need something that this soil cannot give them.
All of this to say: we have had to learn to make peace with unexpected harvests. With the tiny pumpkins, the little ears of corn, the jars of gherkins that really were intended to be larger cucumbers.
Now, I am pleased to say that my sweet husband is leading the charge on expanding our garden, replacing a large area of the lawn with raised beds for our vegetable garden. In turn, my intention is to turn the “old garden” into a place for edible flowers, hardy herbs, and perennial veggies to go wild, plants that do not need coddling or extra nourishment. With the new garden, I have high hopes that a fresh start with fresh soil will lead to higher yields and more inspiring harvests.
However…
No matter where we go from here, I want to remember this lesson of the spent soil: harvests are not always what we hope for, and yet they are good if we let them be good.
Those tiny onions? They made beautiful pickled onions. Those tiny ears of corn? Blanched, removed from the cobs, and frozen, they fed us in stew and chili throughout the cold months. The tiny pumpkins were incredibly sweet and packed with flavor, and carving one of them into a tiny Jack O’Lantern for Hallowe’en one year gave me such hilarity and childlike joy. And nothing replaces the feeling of making my first-ever canned crushed tomatoes, six pints of red summer sweetness. Cracking open every jar felt like a victory dance.
No matter what we sow, success is what we make it. Provision is what we allow it to be. And no matter what we hope for, unexpected harvests can be a summer-warm redemption, sweet and flavorful and ready to nourish us.
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This is probably an odd connection, but as I read your beautiful piece about the exhausted soil, I thought of something I read just this morning at the very end of the Old Testament book of 2 Chronicles. God had finally gotten so fed up with Judah that He allowed Babylon to invade, bringing an end for a time to last of the nation of Israel. The passage says, "This fulfilled the word of the Lord through Jeremiah, and the land enjoyed its Sabbath rest all the days of the desolation until seventy years were fulfilled." Interesting to note that, as the people struggled in exile, the land rested. I guess the metaphor is, even when we're sidelined by sin or adversity, God uses that time to heal and restore -- so we can return to a plot of replenished soil.
These were much needed words in my life, as there are a couple major areas of life where I’ve put in a lot of effort and the harvest was not what I expected. This is giving me a new perspective on those disappointments. Thank you ♥️