Jesus loves me this I know — but what about my garden?

Jesus loves me this I know — but what about my garden?

“The bible says you can talk to God anytime,” observed my 6 year-old son while waiting one morning in carpool. 

“That’s true, Joe.” I agreed. “Do you talk to him often?” 

“Well, I don’t.” This came from our daughter. She sat beside me with arms crossed and head tipped down. Her brows forming a rigid brown line. 

“Why on earth not?” I asked. 

“It’s not like I don’t talk to him,” she continued, “He just never says anything back.” 

 “Just wait 5 minutes,” my son offered. 

“That’s the problem,” Hannah said with a pout. “There is no way I can wait 5 minutes.”  

This was a much more of a conversation than I was prepared for at 8 a.m. on a weekday morning. One child, the child I just found out who loves God and talks with him all the time was about to leave and the other — the one who looked like I told her to practice piano  — was having a spiritual crisis. Why is the mother always the last to know? 

After a few deep breaths and refills of coffee, I recovered. Later that morning, there was a loud rap on the front door. A woman I’d never met stood outside. 

“I just had to stop by and ask about your garden.” 

Some of our collards.

 My visitor had a wonderful smile, two wide-set dark eyes and dark skin covered by a white shirt. A gold cross hung around her neck. I looked my usual 10 a.m., middle-aged, no-makeup-wearing, white-skinned self. 

 With the traffic buzzing by, we fell into an easy discussion on garden and life in general. Annie Ruth asked, “How could you have a 17 year old? You’re a baby yourself.” 

If it was possible to like her any more, I did at that moment. “Please,” I protested. For I know what graying, white, middle-aged (with no shower) looks like. 

“If I know it – I say it,” she promised. “Can I pray with you and for your garden?” 

Was this a trick question? 

Right then my garden, became our garden – well, ours and Lofton’s too. We stood on my front porch holding hands praying for abundance, rain and protection from four-letter, four-hoofed beasts. 

As we ventured knee-deep into the garden to harvest some greens, I felt a warm fuzziness – not like toaster warmth from holding someone’s hand. It was heat on the inside. You don’t want that kind of feeling to stop. So I asked a few more times, “Please keep my garden in your prayers.” 

Annie Ruth stopped picking and glanced at me sideways like she had the minute before when I asked if you put ham in the pot the same time as the greens. (Which evidently you don’t do – at least to start.) 

Putting her hand on her hip looking a bit exasperated she said, “Baby. We’ve already done prayed for our garden.” 

Guess once you’ve prayed something up, no need to keep pestering the Lord about it. I didn’t know a thing about cooking greens, but I thought I did about prayer. Considering the turn of the day’s events, now I’m not so sure. 

Except I know what I felt when Annie Ruth stood amongst my greenery. And it was the kind of something that lasts a lot longer than five minutes.