plants

LIFE CYCLE LESSONS

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

The garden is in. 

The  tomato plants I started tenderly in January are in their permanent homes. 

The kale, broccoli, and lettuce have been transplanted, too. 

Much to my surprise, almost everything I started from seed has survived. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s producing yet. For that, I’ve got to wait longer. As I wait, I can’t help but tuck a few more seeds into the open spaces. And because Erik and I would love to grow even more of our own food, I’ve started another round of carrots. 

And those carrots take their sweet, sweet time. For me, that means it takes about 2 weeks of consistent watering before the first hint of growth even begins to pop through the starter mix. The glimpse of green is so small I do a double take. I get onto my hands and knees, my face inches away from the soil. 

Did they? Did they? 

Yes!

A sprout, thin as a blade of grass, has started stretching towards the light. A few days later, the sprout is taller and no longer alone. It’s brothers and sisters joined it. Now there are 11 sprouts . . . no . . .13!

As I’m counting, I notice something. 

A few of the starts are wearing a hat. 

What is that? I peer closer. 

Oh, of course! 

Some of the seed casings are still hanging on. The stems are stretching taller, but the cotyledons are trapped in the husk. Its job is done, but it can’t seem to let go. 

I start to reach forward, then stop. I want to help. If I ever so carefully remove the “hat,” I’ll free the leaves from their straight jacket. They’ll have full access to the light. That’s what they need to grow! 

But because I’ve been trying to slow down more, I sit back and take a few breaths and think. A half-second later I remember a conversation I had with a friend on Sunday. Her family home schools, and this spring they’ve been learning about life cycles. They’ve watched butterflies emerge from silk cocoons and baby chickens break though the shell of eggs. 

“When we saw the first crack in the shell, we cancelled the whole day,” she says. “We all just sat there, watching this tiny beak break its way through. We wanted to help it. Just pull back a tiny piece of the shell, but we didn’t. We had just learned that butterflies need the entire process of breaking out of the cocoon to strengthen their wings. If you slice the cocoon open, or tug it off, attempting to help, the butterfly will always have weaker wings. It might never fly.  . . It’s like God had a plan or something,” she finishes with a glorious flare of sarcasm. 

As I stare at my burdened carrots, I think through the implication of her story. 

If God has purpose in the struggle for butterflies and chickens, He probably has purpose in it for plants, too. 

The next thing you know, I’m picturing an anemic zucchini plant from last year. I’d started it from seed and thought I was helping when I gently pulled the expired seed casing off its brand-new leaves. It never really recovered. The left leaf – the one where the casing had been stuck, stayed misshapen and weirdly yellow, even though it had been freed! The plant eventually grew, but it didn’t flourish the way it should have. At the time, I chalked it up to not being good at growing zucchini. Now I’m realizing it suffered because it didn’t go through its intended struggle. 

It needs the struggle to survive. 

Resistance makes it stronger. 

The right amount of pressure allows it to fully grow into what it was meant to be. 

If it’s true for plants, butterflies, and chickens, it’s probably true for me, too. I guess I need to wrestle through things to become stronger and to be who God intends for me to be. 

Right now, I feel a little like my carrot seedling. Something is weighing me down and I just can’t shake it. 

I want someone to reach down and pull me out of the sadness I feel. 

I want to know that it will all be ok. 

I want to rush to the other side. 

But today, I’m reminded that there is purpose in the process. So, once again, I pull my hands away from my seedling tray. My carrots will undoubtably be stronger from wrestling. I hope I will, too. 

OUT OF CONTROL 

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

I checked the weather forecast. Multiple times. 

It looked like we were done with freezing temperatures – not that we had many this year. I spent a week hardening off the seedlings I’d planted in January. That means I put them outside for longer stretches each day to get them used to the elements before bringing them back in and letting them cozy up again. 

None of them wilted or withered during their lengthening exposures. 

Things were looking good. So I checked again. And again, just to be safe. 

I even looked at the long-range forecast. Nothing below 32 was expected and we were expecting a lot of rain in the coming week. Perfect! I figured the rain could water in the seedlings if I got them in the ground quickly enough. 

Afterall, they were cold-hardy varieties.

Broccoli, cabbage and lettuce. The tomatoes will have to wait a few more months, but these, I told myself, would be fine. 

A grabbed the seed trays, my garden gloves and a trowel. 

As I dug into the freshly fertilized soil with a layer of rich compost on top, I imagined the salads I’d make from the greens. I pictured myself picking tender broccoli and sauteing it for dinner. Perhaps with fresh garlic and a squeeze of lemon. 

My favorite time of year – the time of harvest – was just around the corner. I was sure of it. 

The first few days went well. The forecasted rain watered the seedlings – a kiss from God to help them settle into their new homes. 

I checked them each day and everyone was surviving.

Then, today, I woke up to snow. At least an inch by 7am. 

I could be fretting. I could rush out in my flannel pajamas with plastic sheeting to try to cover my plants. But I’m choosing not to. 

Instead, I’m tucked under a blanket inside, raptured by the beauty of the unexpected snowfall. 

The coating of white on the driveway, lawn, and trees – up to about 2 inches now – is idyllic. The frosting on my world, covering up the debris from a windstorm two nights ago, brings calm. Unexpected  – but often longed for –  peace.  

In that peace is the reminder that I am not in control. God is. 

I could have waited to plant my first seedlings. 

I could have not trusted the weather report.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter. 

I can do my best – give my garden everything I can to help it flourish – but the growth isn’t up to me. I have no control over the elements. No control over how cold it gets, how much snow will fall, or conversely, how hot and dry the summer might get. 

And while lack of control often infuriates me (I’m guessing I’m not alone in that), today all I’m seeing is beauty. 

I think that’s the lesson I needed today, in this season of my life. 

No matter how much I plan, I’m not in control. The unexpected will happen and as hard as I try, there’s nothing I can do about it. 

This lack of control is both beautiful – because we are in the hands of a loving and gracious God – and terrifying. 

I often try to control things to avoid pain and suffering. I tell myself if I do everything just right, things will go well…or at least not terribly. And while I bear responsibly for my actions and decisions, I have to remember that I am not in control of the outcome. 

Will all the seedlings I planted die? 

Maybe. But even if they do, I still got the January Magic of watching them pop out of the soil for the first time. 

I still got to watch them grow and stretch towards the light. 

I still got to dig into the rich soil and settle the small tangles of roots into the earth.

I still got to dream about their future.

So today, as I watch the flakes continue to fall, I’m choosing to be grateful for those experiences. While I don’t have control over what happens next, I am choosing to rest in the almighty power of the God who holds all things in His nail scarred hands.

I am choosing delight and wonder.

I am choosing to celebrate the beauty of the unexpected. 

I am choosing to be out of control in the best possible way. 

Will you choose that, too? 

JANUARY MAGIC

/ jessicaivaska / 3 Comments

I told myself I wasn’t going to do it again. I’d learned my lesson. I was going to wait for just the right timing. 

I looked at the books. 

I started making a chart. 

I had a plan. 

And then, the sun came out. 

And people on YouTube told me I could do it. They said now was the time. 

So, a few Saturdays ago, with frost making the blades of grass sparkle and crunch under my feet, I went out to the shed and pulled out my seed starter trays. 

I picked up some seed starting mix, and while Erik went to take care of some ministry stuff, I got to work planting my vegetable seeds.

In January. 

Probably way too early. 

It’s possible nothing will survive. But I can’t help it. 

I get so excited about gardening that I just can’t wait any longer. Especially on a sunny day. 

This year I am doing things a little different – hopefully that increases my odds of success. 

In addition to starting a number of plant babies inside, on a heating mat, under grow lights, I decided to try “winter sowing.” 

Apparently, when you plant in a mostly enclosed plastic container and put it in a sunny location, in effect, a miniature greenhouse is created. Because the containers are mostly sealed (They do need a little airflow, and of course, drainage holes), they stay moist and don’t need constant watering. Plus, the ebb and flow of daily temperatures is supposed to “wake up” the dormant seeds in their own timing. You leave them mostly alone, making sure they stay moisturized, until the garden soil warms up enough to transplant them.

They don’t need any hardening off because they have already been exposed to a variety of temperatures and direct sunlight. 

Sounds pretty amazing, right? 

I thought so, too. Especially the promise of getting to start this year’s garden earlier than my garden book said I could. 

Because the truth is, I’m impatient. 

Really impatient. 

And my garden is just one of the places it’s most evident. 

To hedge my bets and try to get the most out of my spring and summer garden this year, as I mentioned, I also started seeds inside. 

Nestled in my dining room, under my 20-year-old black console table, is my “incubation station.” 

I started the same seeds there that I did outside, I hope doubling my chances of success. 

And inside, in the room I walk through dozens of times each day, is where the January magic started happening. 

I planted and labeled the seeds. 

I tucked in cool weather crops like broccoli, lettuce and spinach alongside heat-loving tomato seeds. I watered everything and covered it with a plastic dome. Two days later, I decided to take the dome off to make sure the soil was still moist enough for germination to happen. 

And that’s when I saw it. 

Not one, or two, but at least half a dozen little leaves popping out of the soil and straining for the light. 

I left the dome off. 

I watered again and walked away. 

That night, more cotyledons – this time lettuce – had been born. 

For the last week, I’ve checked those seedlings and stared at the soil of the “empty” trays multiple times a day. 

I almost can’t get enough. 

It happens so fast. One morning it looks like nothing is happening, then two hours later, you see a white bent-over stem starting to stretch from the depths of the dirt. A few more hours, and yellowish leaves have emerged. The next day, the yellow has turned to green and the sprouts stand taller. They are reaching, straining, yearning for the life ahead of them. 

Magic is the best word I can think of to describe it. 

And this January, I needed that magic. Badly. Almost desperately. 

Will all these little guys survive? I don’t know. Probably not. Even if they do, I probably won’t have room for all of them. Picking who will get transplanted – who will be given the best chance of survival – is an emotional battle I’ll fight another day. 

But today, I’m just going to enjoy the magic of it. 

How out of nothing, comes something.

How in the tiniest of seeds – some as small as a grain of sand – can become something that will one day fill the entire corner of my raised bed. One day, God-willing, it will produce leaves that will fill the bottom of my salad bowl as I pile on other miracles – plants of different sizes and colors that will strengthen me, nourish me, delight me and lead me to give thanks to the Creator for His amazing bounty. 

So, yeah. I did it again. 

I planted my garden early. Probably too early.

 But even if it all dies and I have to hit up garden stores to fill my beds come April and May, I think it’s worth it. 

Because January – especially this year – needed some magic.