(Mine does not look anything like this)
North Carolina is hot in July. It's been a challenge to keep the garden watered. I go out shortly after I awaken, dressed in grubby gardening duds, and I pour with sweat.
Eventually, I come back inside, strip the dripping clothing from my radiating flesh, and soak in a cool bath until I feel better.
This is the rhythm of my days.
I don't think about getting sick. I don't think about anything. I prune, deadhead, weed, water and fertilize. I try to figure out how much sun hits where, when. I google lots and lots of plants online. I wear a mask when I go out to buy food, or garden supplies, or toiletries. Otherwise, I stay home.
Currently, I am trying to figure out which plants will survive in a very hot, southwest exposure that gets only about 4 hours of harsh afternoon sun. It's simply too harsh and hot for any shade loving plants, and too shady for the sun loving ones.
Perhaps I can plant a screen of something high, that loves the sun, that will get enough sun because of its height, while providing full shade for the remaining area, so I can put in a few astilbes. I adore pink astilbes.
I'll need to puzzle on this for awhile.
Gardening gets me thinking again and again about life.
Today I chopped down my shrub roses. I'd been planning to do this in February or March, to ready them for next spring, but I just couldn't stand them, all lanky and jutting in odd directions. This morning, I went right after them, as fast as I could before the morning shade was gone on the southwestern tip of the garden, which gets more like 8-10 hours of sun once it's off and running (so I often simply miss a chance to work there, because Shawn is always tracking my sun time and warning me to get into the shade). I cut them down to an organized collection of canes, removing dead wood, wild branching ends, and canes that crossed. I may have killed them, but I have quite a bit of confidence that I couldn't kill them if I wanted to, which I may (they aren't the most beautiful roses, by any means). After I thoroughly cleaned them up, I fertilized them with systemic rose fertilizer, the kind that feeds and provides systemic control against insects and diseases. Strong stuff. I've been pouring about a gallon of water on each bush (there are three) every couple hours throughout this stiflingly hot day. They are not waterlogged. I wonder what will happen, and how long it will be before I can tell.
As I plundered these plants, reaching into crevices with my pruning shears, snipping and snapping and tossing aside, I wondered about God, our heavenly vinedresser, who prunes His people for our growth and His glory. A tender green cane rises from the center of the plant, sprouting some cute little leaves and buds, fresh and hopeful but headed nowhere helpful, twining around other, better canes. I snip it at its base, thinking, "I hope I am a whole bush, and not just a cane. I hope God snips out the undesirable parts of who I am, to make room for the good person He is transforming me into. I hope He would not snip someone--me--out in entirety." I don't think He would. Nevertheless, pruning is painful.
I think of plants that find themselves in spots where they cannot thrive. This home came with some gaura. I finally figured out what it is. The previous homeowner had stuck it into the center of a bed, and it never did thrive. Not enough sun. When some professionals came to prune our Japanese maple this spring, one of them stepped on the best gaura and killed it, but there were two others, which I think had been self-sown by the martyr. Silly plants, they are growing in shade. I moved one, before I even knew what it was, gaura with its finicky taproot that hates being moved. It had been struggling right at the base of the Japanese maple, so any other location had to be more hospitable. After the transplant, it actually got more sun than the one next to it, which had chosen its own location, but both of them have performed miserably. Still, the one I moved survived, and that is a very encouraging fact. I will try to move them again, in the fall or next spring, because there is 100% certainty that they look terrible where they are, and only a very high chance that they will die in another move. If they make it, they will flower in pink, my favorite.
With God, there is perfect skill and wisdom, perfect technique. If He transplants us, for His purpose, we will eventually take to our given spot (Acts 17:26-27). This is important to me, given the fact that I recently moved, and shortly thereafter world events turned to chaos and insanity. I do not feel the least bit rooted in my new location. I've been trying to root some salvia cuttings in glasses of water on my screen porch. Working with cuttings is a new thing for me. It is amazing to me that you can cut a hunk off a plant, stick it into some water and wait. Sometimes, it will actually grow roots out its bottom and new little sprouts out its top, and you can transfer it to a container of potting soil and baby it until it becomes big enough to add to the garden. Who knew?
God can cut us off the plant we were attached to, but He doesn't necessarily cast us away. He might re-pot us, keep us in a nursery for awhile, even coddle us a bit, and then put us out again to flower.
God's coddling may come in the form of a precious tiny grandson to love. What a blessing, to be the grammy, and have the energy to help when the momma is spent. What a blessing to hold a tiny baby and remember one's own, but this time there is all the familiarity and all the precious newness, with none of the post-partum recovery, none of the fear, none of the overwhelmed feelings that accompanied the first round. Pure joy. A little person who trusts me, looks into my eyes and tells me that he knows me. I am his grammy, and he is my comfort from the Lord.
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