“A turtle got it,” my dad said to me as I looked with utter devastation at the claw marks on my prized watermelon. I was eight years old and had waited months for my favorite fruit to be ready. Days before I got to cut it open, our neighborhood turtles decided to make it their dinner.
My ambivalence toward sowing seeds started young, in the vegetable garden I helped my dad plant every spring in our backyard. I always looked forward to planting season with eager anticipation. I remember proudly carrying my bulb transplanter around, carefully digging holes, gently popping out each plant from their plastic containers, and placing them in the red Virginia clay. I’d build zucchini mounds with pride, cage tomatoes with ease, and train cucumbers to grow up the metal fence we put in each year. It was one of the few activities I could do with my father where I felt like I had a sense of agency.
Perhaps it’s because the Earth is so forgiving, so quick to make up for a child’s error, that my dad could relax and not need to be in control. He knew that the plants would be okay even if I pushed the soil around the base just a little too tight.
That’s the thing about sowing seeds, you never really have all that much control.
Inevitably each year, hours into the planting, something would go wrong. I wouldn’t always know what happened, but my father’s rare gentle presence would erupt into his all too familiar rage. My safe haven would be tainted, and I’d feel helplessly small in his company. The hope I had for closeness with my father would crumble, yet I’d stay attached to the plants, awaiting the arrival of their fruits.
In the weeks after planting, I’d anxiously run down the hill in our yard to check and see if it was time to harvest. I’d check on the plants daily with an innocent trust and hope that was unfailing. My faith in the garden was far more palpable than my faith in my father.
Over a decade of my own counseling work, a master’s degree in counseling, and a counseling license later, I still find myself pondering the ambivalence I have toward men and God today. I am thankful to honestly write that I have known good men in the years since the garden. But there are days when I still wrestle to trust men’s hearts toward me, particularly when they show kindness. As I’ve wrestled with my own abuse recovery, I know all too well how my body anticipates the rug to be pulled out from under me in the presence of a kind man. Like fastidiously pulling up weeds to protect plants from dying, my nervous system often scans the room around me to ensure my safety.
At times, the same is true of my relationship with God. I have no problem wildly planting seeds with my hope buoyed by a childlike innocence, but to rest, truly rest, and trust the Father to care and provide for me is not so easy. I often feel an abiding rest in God when I make decisions, and days later, I find myself anxiously scurrying to ensure my safety. Many days I work harder than I need to, and the peace I long to feel in my body eludes me.
I have tenderly fought to hold onto my desire for goodness. The desire that blindly walked beside me down to the garden each spring, unwilling to die. Through much healing and the kindness of good men in my life, I’m more able to keep my hope near. Some days I am only able to muster up faith the size of a mustard seed for the kind of safety that allows me to plant and dream. When I do, I find myself honoring the gritty girl who faithfully showed up season after season covered in a red clay hope. In my age, I’ve learned to believe that a mustard seed truly is enough for a good father. That’s the thing about sowing seeds, I’ve never really had all that much control.
Devan Grayson is passionate about contemplating the beauty of this world as she finds it in her own story and in the lives of others. She loves good conversations, ultimate Frisbee, writing, and hiking. She works as a Licensed Professional Counselor and co-founded Sunergos Counseling Collective in Colorado Springs. She counts it a privilege to walk with clients and is continually struck by the specific beauty woven into the seemingly ragged details of our lives.
