One of my youngest grandsons is happiest when he is outside — rain, wind, snow, or ice — he routinely asks my husband if they can have an adventure in the forest, his imaginative version of walking in the small patch of woods behind our house.

Not long ago my husband came up with the idea to plant green beans with my grandson. They planned a walk to the local home-and-garden store to purchase the seeds, and the new daily question became, “Can we plant green
beans today?”

I see a lot of my dad in this grandson. There was nothing my father enjoyed more in the spring than a visit to the local nursery. There he would wander through aisles of colorful blooms, his brain spinning with wondrous plans for that summer’s garden.

He was diligent in caring for his tender charges, and when dahlias, geraniums, and irises were in full bloom it was a glorious site. One of his favorite flowers was the portulaca, an amazing plant that would fill up his planting boxes with sunny, multicolored flowers.

They seemed to proliferate even in the worst of conditions, a trait inherent in the plant, I would learn. But my father relished taking credit for the lush growth, always with a twinkle in his eye.

He loved to share, and re-share, with me the story of the Irish pastor who decided to hire a gardener for the parish grounds, which had been completely overtaken with weeds and vines. From spring to summer the wiry old man worked diligently to restore the place. Then, one fine day, the pastor strolled out into the flower garden with a neighboring priest, anxious to show off the stunning change.

Gesturing toward the many neatly trimmed bushes and plants burgeoning with flowers, the pastor said, “I praise the good Lord for all of his handiwork!”

With clippers in his hand, the gardener stepped out from behind the bushes and quickly chastised the pastor, saying, “Don’t be givin’ all the credit to God. Just remember what this place looked like before I got here, and God had it all to himself!”

The story still makes me smile, but having failed at a number of gardens, it also reminds me of what’s required of us as co-creators with God. A failed flower garden is one thing, but a failure to grow what is good and beautiful and fruitful in our corner of the world is another.

The first summer we planted portulacas in our flower boxes, we learned about their need for full sun and their shallow roots which don’t require an abundance of watering. My father would have been proud of the results, and I often imagine him sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee enjoying the beauty of God’s creation, nurtured by my husband’s daily oversight.

Imagine if we were as passionate about the gardens of our lives as author Nathaniel Hawthorne expresses for growing a garden: “I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green.”

As my husband and my grandson embark on a new garden venture this spring, I hope when they see their beans “thrusting aside the soil,” they will both learn they are bringing forth their green beans as partners with God, and to remember the words of George Bernard Shaw: “The best place to seek God is in a garden. You can dig for him there.”

— Originally published in the Summer 2024 issue of  Vermont Catholic magazine.