Twenty Something / Christina Capecchi

Challenges of new pumpkin patch remind us how to grow deep roots

There’s something about pumpkins. Lumpy and bumpy, impossibly orange, harbinger of harvest. Instant cheer on a front porch with a hint of moonlit mystery. An invitation to trick-or-treat treaters that later nods to the pilgrims— centerpiece for a table of plenty, symbol of gathering and gratitude.

When we moved to the country earlier this year, I couldn’t resist the urge to plant a pumpkin patch. Finally, my chance had come.

We seized an early Saturday morning in June to bury seeds in the ground. Once we’d emptied every package and the kids had scattered, I stood there in silence, surveying the ground.

“Our Father,” I prayed, “who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

It felt right to gaze into the sky and call upon the Father to connect us—“on Earth as it is in heaven,” from our little patch of dirt to his majestic throne above.

By Wednesday, to my delight, tiny green sprouts had emerged.

I developed a new hobby: watering the seedlings. Watching the soil absorb water soothed my nervous system. I couldn’t get enough. If there were seedlings to be nourished, if there was sun shining down, then the dishes could wait. There was noble work to be done.

Once I did a little research, I discovered I was over-watering my beloved plants. Some of the leaves had yellowed. Others developed a powdery mildew.

My good intentions had gone awry. If there was always water near the surface, I learned, the pumpkins’ roots wouldn’t bother going downward, growing strong and deep. They wouldn’t tap into the better soil that holds reserves of moisture and minerals. And the pumpkins would be less hardy, less resistant to inevitable trials: heat, wind, temperature swings, hungry rabbits.

I had landed on a metaphor, a lesson of the spiritual life: Suffering forces us to grow deep roots. The times we struggle—when we are not spoiled by daily drinks and ready comfort—make us hardy. We become resourceful and resistant.

Though we do not know why or when, we can be certain that eventually, we will rely on those firm roots. There will be drought. There will be storms. And we will know how to dig deep and endure. We will tap into those vast reserves. We will find strength in hidden places.

St. Paul conveys this truth in his Letter to the Romans, writing: “We even boast of our afflictions, knowing that affliction produces endurance, and endurance, proven character, and proven character, hope—and hope does not disappoint because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us” (Rom 5:3-5).

Compassion doesn’t simply appear. It is forged through trials we would rather avoid. A failure, a firing. A miscarriage, a heartbreak. A divorce, a death. But while we regret the reason, we never regret the growth. We are always grateful to be softer and wiser.

We learn from these losses, and the next time around, we know what to do. We have a roadmap sketched by scars. Friends lean on our deep roots as they strengthen their own. Together, we withstand the storm, trusting that the love of God has been poured into our hearts. And hope does not disappoint.

My pumpkin patch isn’t as far along this fall as I would’ve hoped, but as I watch butterflies and bees flit through the vines, I am sure it has been fertile ground.
 

(Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Grey Cloud Island, Minn.) †