A Miracle in the Seed

My Momma loved her garden. To her, a home-grown vegetable was a true treasure. Unfortunately, she rarely had the time to tend to it. Long shifts on her feet as a nurse at the state hospital, followed by caring for a trio of spoiled kids— and their equally spoiled father— left her with little energy for much else.

That’s where I came in.

Without any real planning or fanfare, my yearly gift to my Momma became the labor of love I poured into that garden plot behind our little suburban home. Every spring, I’d borrow the neighbor’s rototiller and begin the ritual. After tilling, I’d walk the rows with a bow rake, breaking up the clods until we had a smooth, ready soil bed, about twelve by twenty feet. Then came the manure, mixed in until the earth was rich and welcoming, eager for tomato, potato, carrot, green bean, and watermelon plants (my personal favorite). We’d even line the garden with marigolds to keep the rabbits at bay. It was hard work for a young boy, but I was fascinated by the “miracle in the seed,” as Momma called it. And most years, I tackled it with heart. Most years.

Baseball was my big distraction. Like my older brother before me, I was utterly obsessed with that stitched white hardball. We played everywhere: on our street, in empty lots, cow pastures, Little League fields, and in our own yard, where the short chain-link fence turned every would-be home run into an automatic out. I watched games, listened to them on the radio, and collected “priceless” baseball cards featuring my heroes. The boys of summer, especially The Big Red Machine of the ’70s from nearby Cincinnati, were my beautiful obsession.

And the cost of that obsession? Well, it was Momma’s garden that paid the price.

As much as I loved planting and watching things grow, the slow pace of gardening couldn’t quite compete with the action of baseball. Each spring I began with the best intentions, wanting her garden to burst with life and make her proud. But to an outsider, it probably looked like I just loved baseball a little bit more. After a strong, enthusiastic start, the garden often succumbed to weeds and neglect by midsummer, producing only a fraction of what it could have. My passion for baseball, on the other hand, thrived.

For a time, it even looked like I might earn a scholarship, maybe even go pro. But a rare and severe case of shingles in my early teens changed everything. The nerve damage to my pitching shoulder ended that dream. Crushed, I never returned to the ballfield or to my Momma’s garden. What followed were some dark, wandering years. But eventually, I found purpose again… in a different kind of garden.

Truth be told, I still love the feel of a baseball in my hands. I’ll roll one around in my palm, massaging it, almost like a caress. My office desk is mostly uncluttered, but there in the right front corner sits a prized possession: a baseball signed by the great Johnny Bench.

And as for the garden? It’s been years since I tended more than a few tomato plants, some cucumbers and a small patch of watermelons. But this spring, once again, the soil is calling to me. It’s asking me to put aside fruitless distractions and to return to the joy of watching seeds become fruit, slowly, steadily, wonderfully.

I know my Momma is smiling down on me, just like she used to.
“There’s a miracle in the seed,” she’d say. “A miracle in the seed.”

Years later, I have to wonder– was Momma talking about the vegetables, the garden, or something else entirely?

“And the seeds that fell on the good soil represent honest, good-hearted people who hear God’s word, cling to it, and patiently produce a huge harvest” (Luke 8:15, NLT)