By Bethany Peck
The large wall clock we’d placed stylishly alongside oversized abstract paintings on our newly painted gray walls clicked in rhythm with my mind going through a solitary to-do list. How to get through this quiet day? Life was looking very different than recent years, and Saturday mornings were no longer filled with Farmer’s Market strolling with friends, or brunch visits with my parents. Still not even a year into settling into married life in a new hometown with my husband, far from my previous life and friends and my family, I was struggling to make new connections and feel at ease in a very different setting than I’d ever known. Those weekend mornings carried a quietness that allowed negative voices to roar loudly in my mind, attempting to cast doubt on God’s goodness for me.
Part of the silence stemmed from the absence of children I always hoped and dreamed would fill my home. Then there was the strain of my marriage, as I grappled with trying to understand my husband’s addiction. And then there was the loneliness from a lack of friends. Life at 30 was nothing like I ever imagined it would be.
But God gave me a garden.
The strained relationships and loneliness drove me out of the quiet four walls of my home and into my backyard, where at least the birds were singing and bees were buzzing for some comforting companionship. The house we had bought in a sleepy country town had enough acreage for a large garden plot, inherited from the previous owners, as well as impeccable landscaping.
On evenings when my heart felt so heavy it might crush me from within, I’d stroll along our property admiring the setting sun on the hydrangea bush. My hydrangea, I’d have to remind myself. God gave me this hydrangea bush, to cultivate and enjoy. The branches were full of lush blooms, each bursting with delicate, ivory, clover-like petals. As I tried to learn proper pruning techniques, I’d clip blooms here and there and gently gather them in a bouquet. An old vase that had been collecting dust under the kitchen sink held the flowers lovingly so that once I returned to my sadness inside, at least this reminder of beauty graced my bedside, and reminded me of hope when I would wake again.
A new day beckoned me to my vegetable garden. Earlier in spring I had wandered a local grain and feed store to pick out packets of seeds. With no experience, I picked a few basics – zucchini, tomatoes, beans… I figured those would do well, despite my novice gardening skills. What about trying something different too, I wondered. Wouldn’t it be neat to grow watermelon? Just the idea of biting into juicy watermelon in a few months, pulled from my own garden, sparked childlike delight.
As the summer went on, each morning I’d head outside, long before the heat of the day became oppressive. Walking through dewy grass to the edge of the dirt, I’d anticipate what new growth I might notice. Basket in hand, I was ready to pick new cherry tomatoes, bursting from their vines. It seemed like zucchini would pop up overnight, and I felt so proud that the work of my hands had created such abundance. The beans were right from a fairytale, with the stalks growing higher and higher, so that stakes were necessary. I took diligent care of them, preparing for their growth, and soon they responded. Basket after basket of beans were picked, fresh, straight from the garden. Though not every plant fared so well. The carrots and broccoli never quite came to fruition. I’d make mental notes to research for next year.
My nurturing longings, numbed by unfulfilled motherhood, seemed to come alive under the sunshine of the garden, and the opportunity to care for my plants. I felt more myself cultivating these crops, as well as a kindred connection to my beloved grandmothers and their knack for gardening. My caretaking provided purpose, while the decay in other aspects of my life felt like a threatening blight to my soul. But I would not let these sprouts succumb. Each day I pulled weeds, watered, and pruned.
Of course, the spiritual lessons found within this cultivation were not lost on me either. As I ripped out thistles and nettles, I thought of the sin in my own life that needed uprooting. As I pulled the hose as far as it would go to reach every corner of the plot, I’d draw on the living water within me for rejuvenation. As I pulled off dead leaves, or smaller branches that would make way for more growth, I’d pray that the Lord would continue his refining work in my life.
And then there were the zinnias. I’d planted a row of them along the edge of my garden, and by mid-summer they were thriving. I highly recommend these hardy and beautiful flowers! Their vibrant colors and general happiness delighted not just me, but the local pollinators, too. Butterflies flitted through them and found sweet, nourishing nectar. It felt like a giant circle of interdependence – me, the zinnias, and swallowtails, and it felt good to be part of this precious creation.
Those zinnias boldly bloomed through September, and I kept harvesting tomatoes and zucchini through the first week of October! As winter came, I started to plan and dream for springtime. While plotting out notes for a new design, visions of my peonies made me smile. And now I knew what the lupines were and I couldn’t wait to watch them come up again. The dried lavender that I’d brought inside was a sensory remembrance, a reminder that seasons held certainty – winter would end and the aroma of spring would arrive again. I also thought of the giant bleeding heart bush outside my door, with its uniquely shaped leaves and intricately designed flowers, marvelously beautiful little broken and bleeding hearts.
I found my heart gently held in that garden, though I only had one more season with it. The truth is, this isn’t a victory story in the way you might expect. In the way romance novels are written, or even what you might see threaded through prosperity gospel proclamations, of a redeemed marriage, childless arms becoming filled. Who knows what God will still do with my pruned life, and I’ve learned to truly believe it’s good that He’s working, but in that season, my heart bled out after broken vows. Some marriages cannot be saved, so I boxed up my shears and shovels for another day as God took me away from that country home, back to my original roots.
The dried lavender bundle survived two moves to be displayed in a porcelain vase above my bookshelf, as I settled back into city life, in an adorable brick row home, with a thumbprint patio. A previous owner had built an above ground garden bed, and you better believe I threw in some zucchini, tomato, and pepper seeds and hoped to watch them grow. This new little haven, where I strung up string lights and would listen to birds sing, interspersed with sirens and city sounds, became new soil for my own soul. It was a place where God kept pruning me, nourishing me, shining His light on me for my own growth.
Tears flowed ever so frequently. Bleeding heart tears, angry tears, repentant tears. Journal after journal, filled with my scribbled prayers, stacked up on my desk. My decades-old Bible began to lose its binding, right there in the middle at the Psalms where I’d find myself night after night. “Search me God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts!” I cried (Psalm 139:23). Thankfully, time was like sunshine, one of the essential aspects to my healing, and each day found me a little stronger, a little more angled towards the Son, a little more beautiful because of the hope blossoming within me. Not to “get my life back on track,” but for the everlasting joy ahead of me.
It took years for me to realize the significance of that garden. It’s been a long time since I left the countryside, and the new life God has given me now nearing 40 has become so abundant – though yes, different, than I ever imagined – that my old life feels more like a distant memory. Grief lessens, though it never quite goes away. And with healing, the hard things actually come into focus more. With hindsight, the gravity of trials and trauma becomes more recognizable.
The reality of those few years for me was incredibly painful, holding challenges and heartache I never imagined as a young woman. The devastation of betrayal and dreams unraveling. And deep, dark loneliness that felt like a pit with no escape. Yet in that dark night of my soul, God gave me a garden. He gave me a plot of land to cultivate, to nurture, to find wonder. Fresh-cut flowers to grace my home with a little joy. Home-grown vegetables to eat and enjoy. Purpose, with intention and beauty. Constant spiritual reminders to keep my heart patched together, to remind my soul of future flourishing.
I look back now and praise God for that garden. Despite my dark night, He gave me a beacon of light. Sometimes I wonder how I would have survived those years, without the garden. I’m more in awe of how God knows our hearts – how he knew mine and provided what I needed through suffering: “You have searched me and you know me.” (Psalm 139:1) I mentioned this wasn’t a victory story, but I now see those plants as a victory garden! A marker to remember God’s love for me, his carrying me through the night.
Our dark seasons can seem unending with pain that doesn’t make sense. But nothing is too dark for God. For “even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.” (Psalm 139:12) He’s the Master Gardener and all along I was a plant in bloom – the good work that God began in me would not be undone, and neither will it for you, too. God gave me a garden and I survived. I weathered the pruning that’s been so good for my soul, and I praise him for what he has done!
Perhaps you’re wandering through a dark and lonely season right now. Or maybe you’re on the other side but still on the arduous journey of healing. Look around and look back. Consider the ways your heart’s been upheld. A friend, a dog, a precious child, a supportive spouse, an enjoyable hobby, nature, the words of Scripture, or even a garden. Suffering is so often unexplainable, but so is grace, because it’s just so good how God provides it. What has God given you? Keep recounting his ways and remember that even “If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” He’s with you, my friend. And if you’re struggling to see the light in the dark, might I suggest buying a pack of zinnia seeds? It’s not too late to have them blooming by September, and you just might be surprised by the joy.
About Bethany Peck
Bethany is a writer and photographer living near the beautiful Chesapeake Bay in northeastern Maryland. She loves nature and writes about experiencing God’s love through creation at bethanypeck.org and on Instagram at @beautiful_purpose_writing. She’s been featured in Fathom Magazine, The Way Back to Ourselves, The Clay Jar Review, and other outlets. In her day job, she gets to write stories for local ministries in the Baltimore area. She and her dog Hunter stay active by hiking, paddleboarding, and enjoying long evening walks.
Connect with Bethany at bethanypeck.org or @beautiful_purpose_writing
Share your favorite recipe + their story
Hey there, friend!
I want to welcome you to the newest addition to the Farmhouse Storyteller Journal- Homestead Hearth, where we celebrate the heart and soul of homestead cooking. Our homestead is a cherished gathering place for tired hog drivers to Sunday dinner. Just as the hearth symbolizes warmth and togetherness, we invite you to join us in sharing the cherished recipes that have brought nourishment and joy to our family table.
Since returning to the country, I have found that food is more than just sustenance – it’s a connection to our past, a celebration of family roots, and a way to create lasting memories. That’s why we’re not just sharing our own family recipes; we’re extending the table to welcome contributions from YOU! Whether it’s a treasured recipe that’s been passed down through generations or a new favorite that captures the spirit of homestead living, we invite you to share it with our community.
Reach out by replying to this email or writing me at danielle@farmhousestoryteller.com.
So come, pull up a chair, and join us by the hearth. Let’s celebrate the bounty of the homestead together, one delicious recipe at a time.
Have a question? Drop me a line here.
Grounded in the Middle Podcast
Grounded in the Middle podcast is available wherever you listen to podcasts, or you can easily listen by clicking below. I’d be so grateful if you would rate, subscribe, and share.
A Blueprint for Intentional Living – Grounded in the Middle.
Up Coming Guest-Subscribe so you don’t miss an episode!
COME HANG OUT IN THE MIDDLE WITH ME ON IG
Farmhouse Storyteller Playlist
If you’d like to tune in to what I’m listening to out here in the middle, you can join me on Spotify where I have a playlist titled, Farmhouse Storyteller. You can easily find the station by directly clicking play to the right or searching for Farmhouse Storyteller on the Spotify app.
For email subscribers. If you are having difficulties viewing this, visit www.farmhousestoryteller.com
Discover more from Farmhouse Storyteller
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.