Dirt Under the Fingernails

It is raining lightly--I suppose it is about time since we have had three days in a row of sunshine.

Mum and I tromp down the bank to the garden, stomp on the tops of our shovels, and begin cutting away the grass that has crept into the soil. Within minutes my hands are nearly black from pulling up the chunks of sod and shaking the mud out of the roots.

These two weeks at home will grant me the extent of my gardening experience for the summer. Even so, they are infringed upon by the gut-deep guilt that I should be doing something to earn money. And yet, what can replace these hours of grubbiness, these conversations with Mum, these wet heads? The worms whisk slickly into their holes as we disturb them. The spearmint that has taken over the far corner of the garden also claims a patch of the surrounding air and I am so tempted by the fragrance that I grab a leaf and chew it. "We could pick it and dry it," I say, thinking of cups of hot tea come wintertime. "Yes," she replies, her eyes all chipper-like, "we could make our own toothpaste." We laugh. But I've always liked wintergreen better anyway.

Somehow it is peaceful down here, sandwiched between the blueberry bushes and the pond, and I have trouble leaving when we go in to make supper. I tell the garden that I want to return; no, not just for a visit to this little plot later on this summer, but to the whole mindset when I have the space to plant my own tomatoes. It is safe here, restful, necessary. No amount of money can change the fact that most of us, come about five o'clock in the evening, feel the questioning murmurs in our stomachs. No amount of efficiency can hurry the growth that God is in charge of. No amount of stress can erase the recognition of His bounty. Yes, I will be back-- hopefully in time for the blueberry season too.