Growing up, I planted tomatoes with Mom this time every spring. We’d buy a tray at Platt’s Nursery and squeeze each soil block out of its pocket. She made sure they were in the ground before Mother’s Day.
My siblings and I usually skipped out of school for an afternoon of gardening.
“Pluck off those little leaves at the base,” Mom would say. “Dig the hole about this deep. Sprinkle in some fertilizer (but not too much; I always heard it could burn the leaves). There you go.”
We’d watch as she’d press mulched leaves around the stems. Then we’d water them.
Just last week, my brothers and sister and I planted tomatoes with Mom. Trent built the box. Joel shoveled the dirt. I clawed holes into it. Janaya squeezed plants out of their trays. Mom guided us.
She’s been doing this for decades. And not just with tomato plants.
Mom cultivates us.
If my siblings and I are tomato plants, Mom knows just how to plant us, prune us, water us, tend us. She pours God’s truth and goodness into us. And then she stands back to watch God make us grow.
She’s a faithful gardener in his kingdom.
“I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth” (1 Cor. 3:6-7).