On a recent trip to Seattle, I basked in my father’s garden. Spring is really something to behold in that sanctuary. I say this not to win points with my dad, but as an acknowledgement that I’m paying attention to the rewards of all of his hard work.
A few weeks ago, under a deep blue sky, armed with a digital camera, I viewed dad’s partnership with God’s creation. I stood silently in admiration and with a child’s wide open eyes. Receptive to whatever caught my attention, I looked everywhere in an attempt to understand my father’s inspiration.
My father has not always been a master gardener. But lately he’s been trying. I mean trying really, really, hard. Some of his recent green thumb-like accomplishments are worth bragging over. His Dahlia’s are the envy of the neighborhood, emerging from their tended flower beds as if they were some floral fireworks explosion.
But dad’s had other explosions as well. We try not to talk too much about his water feature. To do so can ruin a good mood. It pains him that a certain meth inspired landscape architect took him to the cleaners, leaving him with a boulder rock, stair-stepped, $15,000, mud-puddle. A puddle that, for the record, neither supports Koi nor gold fish. Only rotting, water soaked leaves flourish there.
Let’s assume like my father does that hope springs eternal. If you’re an Anderson, this isn’t an option. We are born believing that it really does. In light of this, my father clings to eternal hope that this year his attempt at nurturing water features over natural ones will finally triumph. Jesus walked on Water. Pastor Anderson believes he can “fix the water”.
This is what faith is all about. He has taught us to believe in the impossible. Despite the stagnating water, or the excuses, or hypothesis for why the water does not fall, there must be a divine lesson to be learned before we can go white water rafting in the back yard. My father explains that whatever is amiss-the hidden leaks or the pump that’s under horse powered or that when “Anderson Falls” was originally installed “someone” used the wrong type of liner, he still believes that with the Lord's help he will overcome this small challenge. This year his water feature will amaze us.
I want to believe him. I see that look in his eyes and I want to stand assured and know his faith. This summer things WILL be different. The water WILL fall through a series of rapids. The ponds will support Koi and gold fish and Herons who will eat them as quickly as dad can restock the dang pond. Dad is really, really sure that this time, the Lord is going to help him figure it all out and that the water level will not dwindle to the point where the pump burns up.
My mother is not much for faith. She gazes down at us from the upstairs bedroom window shaking her head. She is not a believer in optimism. That is unless “faith” is put into “action”, preferably through a small claims action. Mom will agree that yes the Lord works in mysterious ways. This is undeniably true. But the Lord also works much better through the intervention of Judge Judy.
My father acknowledges that his is a garden that is “in process”. His lawn has never survived a summer. Indeed he can not grow a lawn to save his life. But once again we encounter the faith based faith of a Lutheran gardener. This year things will be different. He’s put in a very fancy irrigation system, courtesy of a different landscape engineer. Dad is betting that even the hottest July will be no match for his latest intervention.
Do not challenge these assumptions. Do not question dad. Do not crash his landscaping dreams. For retired ministers are not well suited to doubters. This man of the cloth has just about had it up to here with questioning sons, wives and Judge Judy interventions.
Indeed I am learning about life through my fathers gardening exploits. I am learning that life, like a well intended garden, never resembles a state of completion. A sense of unfinished texture and layers upon layers of vegetation extend everywhere one looks. We await things still left to bloom. We await fall color. We await winter's blanket. All of these things transform us. Yet as the seasons change, our lives are also never to be considered unfinished. We, like many of my father’s plants, do not grow in even measures, nor is balance and symmetric perfection ever guaranteed.
To be a master gardener equals status as a stand-in for a never ending walk with both change and faith. Which means accepting that no matter what you do, some plants will grow well but that most won’t-At least not at first. Life is all about chaos and form. Structure and balance must stand side by side with gravity, the seasons, and bad timing. Sometimes my father’s work seems to illustrate great timing. Other times his efforts are the stuff of brilliant clumsiness.
I suppose the most important discovery is the fact that most great gardeners arrive at enlightenment by accident. And that sometimes, a perfect lawn and a working water feature are the least of our potential accomplishments.
Note: All of the following shots were taken from my father's interpretation of paradise. Enjoy.
