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I can't wait for peas to grow


(I wrote this over the summer, and was gently reminded of it by one of my kids a couple days ago. So here it is.)

For the record, what was once a forest in our back yard is now a mildly-successful somewhat recognizable as a type of garden-ish space.

Of course, given that I planted everything so late and since the weather has been exceptionally warm lately, perhaps I can decorate the Christmas tree this year with pumpkins?? Maybe I could even carve an angel into a pumpkin and place it atop the tree?! And you thought angels glow. (Glew? Glowed? What should that tense be?)

This is why people in Upstate New York plant gardens before mid-June. But I lived on a bus, and it's not about the final product right now; it's about the process.

Meh. I will say that I have completely adored the many long moments of time I have spent in my patch of garden-like dirt, and I look forward to many more.

Currently the book "Anonymous" (Alicia Britt Chole) is speaking to me in powerful ways that ease my worrisome heart and remind me that this time of "being hidden" is valuable and has a purpose.

When I first came off this past tour I immediately went into massive bear-meets-winter-time-to-hide-in-a-cave-don't-bother-me-lest-I-bite-you mode. I left the house four times for very short trips in the course of nearly a month; I had no desire to be out where people would want to talk to me. I had (and have) an inherent fear of people asking me questions I can't answer. (Honestly I don't think this is new. I remember grade school and the ability I had to avoid eye-contact with anyone seeking information.) When approached by someone who knows my name and my story yet has failed to introduce themselves, I quiver. This phenomenon is explained here and quite frankly, I never got over it. In fact, I've grown in wittiness and apparently equally nastiness because though I'd never say it to your face, this is what I want to say to you when you ask the following: "Amy, are you home?"

"No idiot, this is a talking mobile hologram: in fact, you can put your entire arm right through my spleen because I'm NOT ACTUALLY HERE."


These people, they mean well, I know. And, truthfully, those that ask are never at my home so the answer is obviously no, I'm standing in [insert location], just like you.

Anyway, the well-intended questions people ask me prod at my heart remind me that not only do I not know the answer, but I have to tell them that I don't know the answer. Questions about what I'm doing now and what comes next and why am I not working and what do I do during the day and AHH. It makes my ears itch.

Today I read this from Alicia:

"Even Jesus' brothers questioned him about what on earth he was waiting for. What those closest to Jesus could not comprehend was that he was waiting for nothing on earth at all, not people's praise or an invitation from the leadership or even a window of opportunity. Jesus was waiting for God's revealed 'right time.'
"That waiting placed his full potential on pause for decades. Yet we do not see him emerging from hiddenness with resentment in his heart. Nor do we find him, no longer hidden, rushing his acceptance as Messiah to make up for lost time. Over hidden years, Jesus decided that Father always knows best, that God's ways are perfect, and that he is never, ever late." (pg. I can't remember, somewhere between 70 & 120)

Wow, what an example. I love all the ways we can see Christ's life paralleling to ours as we walk through this world in our human skin. And I especially love his sinless example of how to walk each day; realizing that these questions I fear he was also asked. This means he understands me - something we know but do we understand? Do we get that he gets us?

And of course, the garden. When the time came and I was ready to put seeds in the ground, my dad winced when I said I planted peas.

Now, I personally hate peas. But he likes them, so I planted them. But he winced because the "gestation period" (WHAT IS the right word for this in reference to plants? I can never remember...) for peas is exceptionally long and I was planting them mid-June. The beans that I placed in the ground at the same time, however, are already long and gangly, and I'm praying they actually grow fatter. The peas? *hangs head in shame* I planted beans where I once planted peas.

They were taking too long to sprout. What happens in that dirt that takes so stinking long? Why can't the dirt be transparent so that I can see what happened to those pea seeds? Did they not sprout because I planted them so late or because something ate them or were they defective seeds or did I uproot them and plant beans in their place right on the cusp of their introduction to the sun? Oi da.

The hidden season of pea seeds. This is my lesson lately. Having patience in these days when I feel like my potential is on hold; when the purpose I feel in my life is being confused with my present reality; when I waste gallons of gas driving around town in search of somewhere to go - only to find myself at the park across the street from my house. I can't even wait for peas to grow. How much I have to learn!

So the answer I'm working up the courage to tell people when they ask me, "What are you doing now?" is that I'm waiting on what God has for me next. And in this time of waiting I'm learning. I'm establishing a firmer foundation in Christ and if they can't see that or understand that,

that's ok.

I know where I am and though I don't have answers for tomorrow I have peace in where God has me right now.

So there's my little bit of growth in the garden for today.

(And where I planted beans over my peas? I HAD beans growing. But you see, the deer came and ate them just as they were nearly ready. Yes, I should have waited for the peas.)

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