The Garden Is Where I Come Alive

There is something about the garden.

The early morning light.
The quiet hum of life waking up.
The soil under my nails.
The responsibility.

Yes — it is work.

There is tending.
There is feeding with nutrients.
There is weeding.
There is pest control.
There is checking leaves, inspecting stems, turning soil, hauling manure, and spraying neem.

 

It is not glamorous.

But oh… the gains.

And isn’t that what life is, too?

We step into adulthood, and suddenly it’s tending and feeding and weeding. Responsibilities. Choices. Discipline. Showing up. Following God even when it would be easier not to.

And then one day, you look up, and you see the gains.

The fruit.
The maturity.
The peace.
The quiet strength.

The garden has been a haven for me — especially since Mojeri died.

There is something deeply healing about nurturing something and watching it grow when your heart has known loss. About placing tiny seeds into dark soil and believing that life will still come forth. About watering faithfully even when you cannot see what is happening underneath.

In my garden, I have watched fragile seedlings become strong crops. I have watched plants nearly collapse and then stand tall again. I have watched families choose health because of something that grew in my backyard.

The garden gives — but first, it requires.

And the lessons? Whew.

Gardening and Parenting

Gardening has taught me about growth.

Not just how crops grow — but how people grow.

Every crop is different.
Shoko is not Rosemary.
Sweet potato is not Kale.
Peppermint will run wild if you let it, while Bell Peppers need careful staking and sun balance.

Each one has unique needs.

And isn’t that parenting?

Each child is different.
Different temperaments.
Different strengths.
Different sensitivities.

You cannot parent Shoko like you parent Rosemary.

The same way God does not nurture each of us in identical ways.

The garden has made me realise how much God invests in us.

Before a single seed goes into the soil, the soil must be prepared. Enriched. Broken up. Fed. Conditioned.

God does that with us, too.

He prepares the soil of our hearts.
He enriches us through experiences.
He breaks up hardened ground.
He removes stones we didn’t even know were there.

And sometimes, that process is not gentle.

The Splinter in My Hand

One day in the garden, a small piece of wood lodged itself into my palm.

It hurt.

It would have been easier to leave it there. To ignore it. To work around it. To pretend it wasn’t that deep.

But every movement reminded me it was there.

So I chose the harder thing.

I pressed. I pulled. I endured the sting of removing it.

It was painful.

But the relief afterward? Immediate.

And I thought about how often in life we let things fester because it’s easier than confronting them.

Bitterness.
Unforgiveness.
Fear.
Offence.

We learn to function with the splinter.

But the removal — the confession, the apology, the boundary, the hard conversation — is what brings peace. Lightness. Healing.

The garden teaches daily sermons if you are willing to listen.

The Story of My Shoko

My shoko once looked like it was finished.

Aphids everywhere. Inch worms chewing through leaves like they paid rent there. It was discouraging.

But instead of uprooting it, I treated it.

I pruned the damaged leaves.
I sprayed neem oil.
I enriched the soil with manure.
I watered faithfully.

And then something beautiful happened.

It revived.

Flourished again.

And I could not help but think of that scripture:

“At the scent of water it will bud and put forth branches like a plant.” — Job 14:9

The scent of water for my shoko was pruning. Neem oil. Manure. Water.

The scent of water for us might be correction. Prayer. Discipline. Rest. Community. Obedience.

Sometimes revival does not come from escape.
It comes from staying planted in the hands of the Gardener.

No matter the attack.
No matter the pain.
No matter the suffering.

In the hands of our Gardener, we are revived.

The Haven

Since Mojeri passed, the garden has held me.

It has been a place where grief could breathe.

Where I could cry and still plant.

Where I could process pain while mixing compost.

Where I could watch life continue.

There is something sacred about partnering with God in growing food.

About seeing how He designed every seed with a blueprint for life. About realizing that even when a plant looks dormant, something is happening beneath the surface.

That truth has carried me.

Because sometimes we feel buried.
But buried is not dead.

Sometimes we feel attacked.
But attacked is not abandoned.

Sometimes we feel pruned.
But pruned is not rejected.

The garden reminds me that God invests in us more than we could ever imagine.

He weeds.
He feeds.
He prunes.
He protects.
He waters.

And when necessary, He removes the splinters.

Gardening has made me see Him everywhere.

In the soil.
In the sunlight.
In the scent of water.
In the revival after the attack.

One can truly find God in everything.

I truly believe it.

And maybe that’s why the garden is where I come alive.

Because it reminds me that even after loss…
Even after the attack…
Even after pain…

Life still grows.

And so do we.