i’m standing at the line wind in hair unclipping clothes pins, wood between fingers. the sun makes my face look like a strawberry. suddenly he’s standing there amongst the folds of linen, home from work. shirt unbuttoned, feeling the kiss of summer air.

“how are the children?” he asks, first thing, after kissing my belly where our own child lies.

he’s referring to the peppers and tomatoes we transplanted earlier this week. his forehead is wrinkled like the furrows in our garden. together, hand in hand, we step bare-footed amongst our rows of ‘children’ observing their colour of leaf, their tender heads struggling upwards from a bed of black soil.

“i think they’re okay,” i tell him softly.

“and mr. wilty?”

mr. wilty is our one tomato plant who was dry as cardboard upon planting. somehow he’d missed my daily waterings. we’d been taking extra care of him, since. “he’s getting stronger.”

i look forward to these afternoon moments of walking bare-footed in wet soil checking up on our little ones. soon we’ll have grown a different kind of plant altogether–a human plant–to nourish and feed, to pray for and love.  standing here in the garden, womb protruding, hand in husband’s, i know we can’t do this alone. i have to trust that God is with us now, and always.

the ultimate Gardener. the everlasting father.

tending the roots…

looking after our children.