To my chagrin, our Coloradan climate tells us it’s too early to begin digging in the garden. But (thank goodness!) it's not too early to begin cultivating our seedlings. My children and I break the seal of their packages, gently shaking them into our upturned hands. They emerge from the confines of their packet, encountering the fresh breath of the early spring breeze for the first time. But we don't expose them to the chill for long - we waste no time swaddling them in the comforts of warm soil before bringing the tray inside to rest cozily on the warm radiator.
Each year, this ritual settles in my heart like a lovely rhythm, the opening lines of a new yet somehow familiar melody that will shape my summer, my garden, and my soul. As I settle the little tray indoors, I look at the empty rows of soil pots, each silently encasing the possibility of sprouting life. Reluctantly, I turn away. There’s nothing to see. It’s time to wait, watch and pray.
At first, praying over my plants felt rather strange. Of course, a casual prayer cast to the heavens felt natural enough; a half-hearted "God, please don't let the rabbits nibble all my violet buds this time!" or "God, please keep the frost from damaging my Heliotrope!"
But when a friend of mine suggested I do more - that I write a liturgy for the planting of seeds - I got excited. I grew up in the liturgical church tradition and my Sundays were always filled with the recitations of richly-worded prayers used by Christians around the world. At first it seemed a little audacious to write my own, but I knew I wanted to try. So a few days later, I settled myself down at my keyboard, and began to write.
My aim was to write a series of three prayers; one for the planting of the seed, one for the appearance of the seed, and one for the death of a seed (its failure to germinate). But as my fingers began flitting across the keyboard, I realized that my grief, my hopes and my fears were tangled up with my burgeoning prayer for the seeds. In fact, as I typed out word after word, I realized that they were, for me, inseparable.
It quickly became apparent that I couldn’t write a meaningful, honest prayer over the life of my seeds without engaging my faith in the God who created them.
The writer of Ecclesiastes wrote that “a cord of three strands is not easily broken,” (Eccl. 4), and though he is referring to the strength in numbers of loyal friendships, I can’t help but think of the old Anne of Green Gables film where Gilbert, (massively crushing on Anne Shirley), teased her in good old school-boy fashion by yanking her braid from behind. Enraged, she turned and smashed her slate over his head. But if Gilbert had yanked on a single strand of hair? Well, we’ve all had a strand of hair yanked from our heads. They don’t offer much resistance to the offending party, whether it be a cranky sibling or a finicky hairbrush…
Anne and Gilbert aside, I now believe that as a gardener, it is integral to weave together the petitions for my garden with the mess of my emotions, offering both to God in recognition that my own growth is fostered by my garden, and my faith is strengthened in its soil.
After all, my life is tied to the life of the earth, for both our voices cry out to the God promises to restore us both to wholeness.
Three years later, I now use this series of prayers every time I begin my batch of baby seedlings, and this brisk April was no different. Five days ago, my children and I began our ritual and recited the first part of the liturgy: the planting of the seeds. Yesterday, two seedlings sprung up, (my daughter spotted them first!), so we prayed the liturgy for the emergence of the first seeds. A few weeks from now, I anticipate mourning the barren soils of one or more seed pots. And as we reverently carry those pots outside, we will pray the prayer for the death of our seeds as we recommit them and their soil to the earth from which they were conceived.
When I remember to pray over these little seedlings, it orders my own heart and reorients my priorities.
If you, too, find that your prayers and hopes for your tomatoes, peonies, or zucchini feel a bit tangled with your emotions this year, by all means, I warmly invite you to use these liturgies, (originally posted here at Cultivating Oaks Press ), to help you work through that stubborn thicket of weeds that crowd both our hearts and our gardens. I would be so delighted if my own heart’s struggles produced more fruit! (After all, we’re sticking to garden imagery, right?)
I must end by thanking Adam Nettesheim, on behalf of me and my children and the readers of Cultivating Magazine, for encouraging me in this endeavor. This liturgy wouldn’t exist without you, my friend!
Into the garden!
Love and peace to you all,
Christina
