My garden was two hopeful raised beds with some found dirt piled in and spread around. My hopes of starting a few Zinnia plants were dashed when the cheap packet of seeds I got at Walmart contained nothing but air. Yeah.
A few tomato plants, extras from a friend, showed up and settled in.
Then a neighbor offered me melon plants.
Melons. All I ever really wanted to grow, nearly impossible to ripen in my old home state in the North.
Yes, I said I’d take them. Even though I knew that transplanting melon plants as mature as these would be a gamble.
I dug them carefully, separated them from their neighbors, tried to keep the roots in tact, and trundled them across the field to my beds. Tucked them into the rough, first-year soil and gave them a good drink. Watch the weather and was thankful for overcast skies while my transplants adjusted.
Would they survive the transition? Would they thrive?
A month goes by. I hear of others already enjoying melons from their gardens. I smile. I don’t mind. My turn is coming.
My melon plants are a bit delayed, but they survived. They bloomed. Set fruit, and are thriving.
We pulled up roots 7 months ago. Hoped to survive the transition, hoped to thrive. The days are long and nights too short, and parts of us are still a bit withered and showing signs of stress. But God’s given us sun, rain, and a place to put down roots, and we are beginning to bloom. I need to celebrate the moments that show our family is settling in–just like I celebrated the yellow blossoms on my melon vines–and trust that the Lord will bring a harvest.