Abundance

Five fingers—my hand—

limited.

There were five fishes.

Five stones in David’s sling.

And only one thing I asked God for.

Because it was enough for me

that I had a few boxes of tomatoes from my collapsing plants.

I hadn’t deserved even that, given

that I couldn’t bring myself to walk out to the garden

some weeks.

It was enough that the cucumbers

gave through the end of August.

I abandoned them to grow without water.

And the flowers gave their final blossoms

a full week and a half ago.

It was enough because I wasn’t the best gardener anyway.

(I forgot to water, weed, and spray.)

Like little bursts

I came

and went

and forgot

then prayed I hadn’t killed it.

Meanwhile, the winter squash grew like creeping blankets, covering the beans and corn. It looped across the tomatoes and sent fingers crawling through the potatoes.

In spurts I dreamed

Next week,

Or the next.

I’ll do better

Be a better.

And still it grew. Peppers breaking stalks. Carrots like grass. Corn pushing through husks. Sunflowers taller than the fence, heads dipping down to dust my head in yellow pollen.

Bugs. Beetles. Grasshoppers.

Chickens got in. Dogs got in. A fence fell on the tomatoes.

Three times.

It was enough because I’d given imperfectly and my goal was small.

Only better than the last time I tried.

But God gave stacks of frozen corn. Twenty one acorn squash. Pumpkins growing on the back of the tiller and through a fence, trailing vines full of ripe fruit despite powdery mildew and a hundred degree heat. More cucumbers, another gleaning of flowers, and five boxes of tomatoes, large and red. Rows of thick round carrots and green leaves growing up from buried potatoes.

God gave like a gift uncontained—fullness spilling over into unworthy hands, ripeness feeding soiled lips, richness overflowing on an imperfect soul.

A little better than before

was enough.

But God didn’t hold back.