Steve Jobs, Rest In Peace

My husband and I were heading to a coffee shop tonight to have a short business meeting about household expenses. Before packing up my Mac to bring along (to help track expenditures on Microsoft Excel), I opened my Safari browser, which automatically defaulted to the Apple home page. A portrait of Steve Jobs, in his trademark black mock turtleneck, stood dramatically against a stark, white background. I saw the "1955-2011" tagline, and knew significant history had just been made. 


Eternal rest grant unto Steve Jobs, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon him.


For someone who knew little about this co-founder of Apple and Pixar (animation studio that produced kid's favorites like Finding Nemo, WALL-E, and Toy Story), I'm one of a fan club of millions hugely impacted by his work. I witnessed Catholic home mission EXTENSION Magazine transition from more manual laying out of "boards" to prepare pages for the printer, to using desktop publishing. We were among the very first Catholic mission magazines to use this technology. My wonderful editor Bradley Collins was positively intrepid in learning to use this technology and getting the magazine transitioned. He'd give his staff lessons, then encourage us to play around a bit with the Mac, until we were confident using it for design work. I experienced history in the making! I remember having to write ridiculously long codes in the early, pre-Mac days, just to typeset fonts into italic, etc, for every title, subhead and set of quotation marks. Tedious. Then, Macs arrived, and we all experienced a sharp learning curve! But the resultant leap in efficiency was fantastic.


I never foresaw in those early days, that such technology would one day be available to the average school child. Even packing up my computer to discuss bills with my husband, shows a climate shift in how technology now penetrates modern lives, down to the most mundane details. It's amazing how techie advances dreamed up by a brilliant "computer nerd" could impact the world. (As an interesting aside, Steve Jobs was adopted. Today, when one in three babies conceived are aborted, Jobs might never have seen light of day. But he was born in the 1950's, so the world received the benefit of his conception.)


Described by many as having a complex, driving personality, Jobs was known for insisting on functionality with elegance. My first reaction at seeing a Mac laptop was awe at its sleekness and ease of use. Two years ago, my husband thrilled me by taking me to an Apple store and suggesting we buy a Mac. With all my writing, he thought it would prove useful, versus our clunkier, older computers at home. What an inspired idea. With the Mac came an iPod touch. I didn't know quite what to do with it. My then-10-year-old offered to give me a few lessons, my other two kids filled in the gaps, and voila, the iTouch took up useful residence in my purse. Now it's fished out daily for keeping appointments in order, and I seem to discover new, handy uses for that little gadget all the time -- not to mention the fun of having a ready-made Scrabble game on hand for long car trips. When my kids tire of playing, I can always challenge the computer. 


As for my lightweight laptop, what an incredible blessing. Desperate for writing time a few weeks ago, I found myself up at 5:20 AM to walk my husband to the train for work. With 6:15 AM Mass offered at a church near the train station, it made perfect sense for me to pack along my computer, attend Mass, then head to a nearby coffee shop for an hour of writing before returning home to officially start my day. My little laptop slung in a backpack made this efficient use of time and portable office possible. I credit my Mac with starting me on the road to blogging, tweeting and writing more easily a young adult novel, now in final stages of editing.


Of course, it's all about balance. When I was a kid, it was hard enough to keep off the telephone and away from TV. Now we have devices like iPhone, iTouch, and laptops so miniscule they travel anywhere. Steve Jobs either invented or influenced much of this technology. I wouldn't want to do without it. I thank God for it! But I'm also determined to stay philosophical and detached. I want to be able to let go easily if I ever, for some reason, have to go tech-free. 


In the end, Mr. Jobs faced that challenge. All his technology couldn't prolong his life. This husband and father of four faced that final moment when all that mattered was himself and his Creator. His loved ones released a statement saying he had died quietly, surrounded by family. Steve Jobs, Rest in Peace.

Bridging cultural divides can be delicious

Photo by Marianna Bartholomew

Through junior high, my best friend was a black, Haitian-American girl named Gina. We sang in our Catholic church choir and whenever we were together. Her voice was as smooth and rich as hazelnut latte. Both her parents were cultured, well-spoken doctors. Aunt Regi helped care for the family, and when I visited, this ample Haitian in cotton housedress grinned and embraced me. I don't remember how much English she boasted, but I thought her French beautiful. For dinner, Aunt Regi fed us herbed chicken, fried plantains (like bananas, but not as sweet) and warm coke. If friendship had a taste, it would be that savory chicken! I wish I could replicate that meal just once. I've tried, but lack this jovial woman's hand with the spice jar. I'm actually test-driving a new recipe for Haitian chicken tonight. We'll see what happens!

A Filipino friend made my husband and I Pancit. 
Pancit means "noodle" in their language.
 Photo by Chboogs Putipina.

In college, friends joked I was an honorary member of the Asian Club, because many of my buddies were Filipino. I enjoyed standing eye-to-eye with someone for a change (I'm 5'00" tall), and liked their gentle ways. One Filipino welcomed my future husband and I into her apartment, and served yet another delicious chicken dish called pancit -- shredded chicken and vegetables on rice noodles. Ah, another dish to add to my "Friendship and Food" file.

One of these days. I'd love to try replicating the
handmade tamales a coworker at EXTENSION made. 
(Photo by Tatsuroo at Photobucket.)

At EXTENSION Magazine, I worked with African-Americans, Hispanics, Asians and Anglos, and pot-luck parties were spectacular. I threw in my own contributions of Shoo-fly pie and Irish soda bread (from my Pennsylvania Dutch and Celtic heritage), tried okra in my first authentic soul food, learned to crave handcrafted tamales in their cornhusk sleeves and the sweet custard flan, and sampled refreshing Asian salads, homemade pierogies and kolaches. Savoring everyone's favorite dishes, I gained wonderful memories, good friends and an extra pound or two! (These days, I bring Boursin cheese to parties -- adding the French herb chervil -- a nod to the third part of my ancestry).

Granddaughter of Catholic catechist
and Oglala Sioux Nicholas Black Elk
(cousin of Chief Crazy Horse),
welcomed me into her home and
served up the best meatloaf I've
ever had! I'll never forget her warmth
and hospitality. Photo above shows
Black Elk with his wife and daughter.

Fine meals punctuate memories like bookmarks. I'll never forget regional cuisines I sampled when writing about missions for EXTENSION. Maybe these events etched so deeply in my mind because I lived in an efficiency apartment in Chicago and cooked meals on a hotplate. In the South Dakota home of a granddaughter of the famous Black Elk, I was served the best meatloaf ever. (Okay, not a Native American delicacy, but it was so good. Several times, I've tried Indian fry bread, which tastes good, although it probably has about a million calories.) In a tiny Appalachian trailer, a little elderly woman sat me down and fed me succulent  peach pie. On a Cajun family's shrimp boat in Louisiana, I sampled delicate crab just pulled from the waters and boiled up in a pot on deck. Every time, food presented a safe topic for conversation, until we established a comfort level and could wade into deeper waters. Missionaries have a special name for this: pre-evangelization. It means being present to people, sharing meals and lives, to lay a foundation of trust and friendship.  

On assignment at Brother Thomas Pettite's homeless shelter -- Lazarus House in Lawrence, Massachusetts -- I felt overwhelmed at first by the dozens of clients who poured in at mealtime. Volunteers and the homeless shared prayer time in the chapel, before enjoying a delicious, hot meal. I remember mashed potatoes were on the menu -- and birthday cake, for one little, homeless girl. The weary clients bending over coffee put aside troubles to smile and sing for the girl. After the meal, I sat on the stoop with a young blond man who said he had spent much of his childhood "under the bed instead of in it," because of alcoholic, abusive parents. Freshly-emerged from sleeping under bridges, he was articulate, gentle and steering toward a better life. He helped me see how homelessness affects every demographic.

A comforting meal and a birthday cake 

lightened up the atmosphere and got 

people talking at a homeless center 

I visited in Lawrence, Massachusetts.

On the lighter side, my kids still cherish the night we dined with a Thai co-worker of my husband's. I always thought it was so brave of a bachelor to host a family of five. He cooked up Pad Thai and other savory dishes, and my family reciprocated later with barbecued ribs and apple pie. Years ago, another co-worker of my husband's invited us for Indian food. Although the roof of my mouth nearly blew off from the spiciness of the dishes, they were tasty and unforgettable, as was the scarcity of furniture in the spacious home, and the quantity of silk pillows and mats.


Befriending people of all cultures can be delicious as well as fascinating, because gabbing about our various backgrounds so often takes place around a table laden with unique dishes. Even so, have you ever felt out of your element trying to bridge the cultural divide? I did, years ago, when I was invited into a Mexican-American's household for dinner. I felt shy and overwhelmed as one of two Anglos (my two-year-old daughter was the other), amidst a sea of Spanish-speakers, and never got over that feeling all evening! Of course, it didn't help that this was a new, next door neighbor, and I had accepted a spontaneous invite over the fence to come share a family barbecue. It was a mild, summer evening, and I responded so eagerly, I stepped through the gate without any shoes. The event started with the sweet mother and I chatting, but her children, their friends, and then, extended family, poured in at an astonishing rate. My husband was in bed with a migraine, so I spent the evening trying to hide my feet, checking on my husband through our bedroom window screen that faced our neighbor's house, keeping my active toddler from knocking everything over, and doing a lot of nodding and smiling. 


When we feel that awkward, I guess we just have to laugh it off and try again. Later, my husband and I attended a feast day celebration of Our Lady of Guadalupe at a Chicago Hispanic parish. This time, I felt welcomed and comfortable as I watched the colorful procession honoring Our Lady. Children wore festive, traditional dress and a mariachi band strummed. The feasting later in the parish hall offered great company, and food better than at my favorite Mexican restaurant.

Honoring Our Lady of
Guadalupe is often
accompanied by feasting.

Food and friendship just seem to flow, one into the other. Often, we first experience this reality in a warm home environment (thanks, Mom!), and learn to extend this hospitality to others. A friend of Italian heritage, her mother, and her daughter, an Anglophile, just hosted my 17-year-old daughter and me for an elaborate "tea." Cucumber and roast beef sandwiches, orange spice cake, champagne grapes, pumpkin crackers, and lingering conversation over our tea, made a real event of the afternoon. Inter-generational talk about fine literature and art flows on such occasions, and I'm always excited to see how much great literature our daughters have read, and the fun they have discussing various plot lines, historical periods, etc. It's a treat swapping gardening ideas with the mom, an artist who's recently turned her back yard into a sanctuary for native prairie plants. It's also fascinating to listen to the grandmother -- of Italian heritage, but raised in Argentina -- speak a combination of Castilian Spanish and English. She abounds with tales about how her mother, a resident of Argentina, got trapped in Italy for seven years during World War I, and was taken in by cloistered nuns in Florence. 


A Catholic, Anglo friend hosts "Secret Garden" gatherings at her city property. Married to a Catholic, African-American husband, she invites women of various backgrounds and faiths. Her five children play host to pre-teen and teen guests, while women congregate under trees, and in outdoor "rooms" contrived from strategically-placed, salvaged architecture, wild ferns and blooms. Conversations spark as dusk falls. Faces flicker from the light of two brick fireplaces and dozens of candles. Tempting dishes are laid out on an assortment of fine linens, (gleaned from creative resale shopping). 


Oral traditions proliferate on these evenings, and people chuckle about the time an errant raccoon reached a hand from outside the circle onto one of the tables to snag a snack, or heavy winds threatened to peel the tarp off an outdoor party room. Perhaps these "Secret Gardens" have continued over the years because it's so much easier befriending someone new in a mysterious space resembling a scene from Narnia, and over a heartening bowl of tortellini soup, white-chocolate covered grapes, or chocolate ginger cookies. Newly-met guests at a Secret Garden this past Friday recommended good reads to each other, from The Long Walk by Slawomir Rawicz, about prisoners escaping Siberia, to the inspiring writings of Immaculee Ilibagiza, who personifies forgiveness, after surviving the 1994 Rwandan genocide (she escaped by hiding 91 days in a tiny bathroom with seven other women).

Not everyone has a solid family

tradition of eating together.
Father Leo Patalinghug
created this inspiring
cookbook to teach people
 how to build healthy relationships
 by preparing and sharing good food. 

Comfort food is a great icebreaker, a natural conversation-starter -- and it's becoming more rare as people with frantic schedules jam in fast food meals. Preparing and enjoying home-cooked dishes and serving them up in style is actually a virtue, and one to be shared! And if it helps bridge a cultural divide or two (or even helps heal relationships within our families), all the better!

See these sites, where Jeff Young (The Catholic Foodie) and Father Leo Patalinghug (Grace Before Meals) blog about a growing movement to encourage families and friends to draw closer to their faith and each other, by cooking and eating together: The Catholic Foodie; Grace Before Meals.


(To come, Part II: Bridging Cultural Divides through 
Faith and Fine Arts)

Fruits of our labor

"In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous"...Aristotle

I gathered the above veggies out of my garden for lunch, and was so struck by their beauty, color and form, I just had to take a picture...Soon after, I scrubbed, chopped and plopped them into a pot with water, making rich, thick, tasty vegetable soup. See the luxurious, plum color of the eggplant at left, and the eye-popping orange of the first carrots I've ever successfully grown. I recently blogged, "Walking with God in the Garden," but my garden is so like a jungle now, "walking" is out of the question. I play Twister with squash and cucumber vines, creeping, stooping or balancing precariously and bobbing like one of those goofy drinking birds, to harvest the fruit. By the time I've loaded my basket full of good things, I've gotten quite a workout navigating my organic obstacle course. I have pumpkins growing up arbor vitae! I guess more trellises are in order.

Oh, if we could always see such tangible fruits of our labor! But never fear, even when we don't see results, labor is good for us. Labor...it's our very nature. And, as Aristotle said, it can be "marvelous."

"...man, created in the image of God, shares by his work in the activity of the Creator," wrote Blessed John Paul II in his encyclical Laborem Exercens. This year marks the 30th anniversary of this powerful document exploring the dignity of work. 

Spending most our lives in labor, it forms us, yet should never enslave us:

No labor's lost

Labor

defining days

often, unavoidably, evenings

Varied, intense, exhilarating

repetitious, draining, dry

We are made for this

digging deep into labor

sparks the soul 

plants and waters

the nourishing kernel that makes us whole

enervates each day

If deadly dull, seek meaning

Each task done bitterly

drains life

like a schoolyard insult

signals opportunity lost

Duty done boldly

like a toe reach over that final hurdle

or the last notes breathed by symphony players

outdoors on a humid evening

ennobles

Duty dignifies

if done heartily

with humor

purpose

and for that one great goal

a sigh to God

and the uplifting

beautifying

sanctifying

of humanity

Labor saves

Simplifies

Yes, and can even

be savored

By Marianna Bartholomew

"Entrust your works to the Lord and your plans will succeed." Proverbs 16:3

Happy Labor Day!

Happy Birthday, First Born!

First Born

You were born
and the poetry left me
for a time


Perhaps because
you are poetry embodied


I stand before you
mute with wonder


By Marianna Bartholomew


Tenses mix in this poem I wrote a year or so after my oldest child's birth. The first stanza refers, in past tense, to a certain happening in my history...while the second and third stanzas speak of an ongoing reality. My child arrived and the poetry did "leave me." However, my daughter is "poetry embodied," leaving me "mute with wonder."


Becoming a mother was so disorienting in a wonderful way, that I didn't return to composing poems and articles until I was well settled into my new maternal identity. At first, I lacked time and inclination to write much of anything amidst the novel intricacies of nursing, diapering and nurturing my newborn.


As youngest of seven children, I had almost never held or cared for a baby before my own arrived. My first time changing a diaper came at Chicago's Northwestern Memorial Hospital when the nurse chucked my daughter to me for a necessary refreshing. I held up a diaper and asked, "Um, is there something special I'm supposed to know about this?" Clueless.


My first "grand experiment" in child rearing, my daughter arrived on this planet in dramatic fashion, suiting her artistic nature. I mentioned in my prior post that my daughter met and received a blessing from Blessed John Paul II in Rome when she was around ten weeks in utero.


What I didn't mention, was our fall into a tomb in the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus on that same trip. Looking up to examine what appeared to be bones in a high up niche, I stepped back into oblivion. I don't know how far was that descent into the recessed tomb, but I do know the impact was spectacular. I remember that surreal moment so well...people's hands reaching out to grasp mine, our fingers brushing, as I slipped back and down. By the time I was hauled out of the pit and had the red clay beaten off my long, black wool coat, I was weak with laughter and clinging desperately to the hope that the baby nested within had napped through the jolt and suffered no harm. I refused to let worry ruin the trip. I had felt called to Rome, and if I was dumb enough to prematurely bury myself and my babe, well, I figured God would safely haul us from the abyss. 


Seven months later, after an 18-hour labor and emergency C-section, I gave birth to a baby that had everyone in the delivery room hooting and cheering. Yes, the baby looked 3-months old. Yes, this 5'00" tall woman really had given birth to a whopping 9 lb 7 oz baby. Only later, did my husband tell me big babies ran in his family!


My daughter has remained "big," in how she has transformed my husband and my lives, as have her two younger brothers.


"Remember how we actually used to run out of things to do?" my husband asked the other day, referring to those first days of marriage in our one-bedroom apartment -- "B.B." -- "Before Babies."


I do remember a feeling of emptiness in the place and in my soul, as I longed deeply for a baby to "make us three."


Today is my first born's 17th birthday. An artist, she drew the above sketch of a baby for a picture book I was working on a couple years ago. How can it be, that these years since she was a baby, have flown so quickly? 


Happy birthday, Daughter, and God bless you! I love who you are, and who you are becoming...

What's the point of World Youth Day?

What’s the point of World Youth Day (WYD)?

The Chicago Tribune said it well six years before the first WYD, covering the visit of Blessed John Paul II to the city October of 1979: “For forty hours, the visitor from Rome unites the city in spirit.”

I was 15-years-old at the time, and thrilled that Mom took my brothers and I from high school to attend the three-hour Mass in Grant Park that attracted an estimated 200,000 people. We jammed onto a train full of spirited people who spontaneously broke into singing familiar hymns as we headed east. Streets downtown were cordoned off and crowds surged toward Grant Park, praying, singing and introducing themselves to fellow pilgrims.

We stood at a curb for hours, waiting for the Holy Father to pass and Mass to begin.  A battalion of Knights of Columbus formed an honor guard along the street, and I despaired of seeing a thing. But when John Paul II passed in an open-air vehicle (no Popemobiles back then) and buoyantly greeted the crowd, I poked my head through the crooked arm of a caped Knight, and caught a full-face glimpse of the Holy Father. I’ll never forget his joy, the crowd's, nor mine.

Not every day do you experience 200,000 people fervently voicing together their Alleluias. During his homily, Pope John Paul II said, "Looking at you, I see people who have thrown their destinies together and now write a common history. . . This is the way America was conceived; this is what she was called to be. . .But there is another reality that I see when I look at you. . .your unity as members of the People of God."

Somehow, priests managed to distribute communion to the massive crowd. Silence at that moment was profound, broken only by priests murmuring “The Body of Christ,” and people affirming, “Amen (so be it),” as they received the Eucharist.

Later, we walked to Union Station and wended home in a standing-room-only railcar, again joining in spontaneous bursts of song.

Impressed by the joviality and kindness of a Knight of Columbus I had befriended that day, I wrote to the Knights sharing my growing conviction that I had a religious vocation. One wrote back, encouraging me to live prayerfully as a teen and focus on home duties and studies, while I continued praying and discerning God’s call.

My attraction to religious life faded, but when post-college desperation to find a job drove me to answer a blind ad looking for a secretarial assistant, I arrived for the interview to discover that EXTENSION was a Catholic home mission magazine. That led to my writing about the Faith and home missions for more than twenty years – a job that has blessed and enlivened my life and soul in more ways than I could number.

In January, 1994, I headed to Rome to attend the elevation to bishop of then head of Extension Society, Edward J. Slattery, now Bishop of Tulsa, Oklahoma.

My group attended a private audience with Pope John Paul II, and when the aged pontiff met my eyes and grasped my hand, I believe he said three words to me: “Family, family, family.” I was around ten weeks pregnant with my first child at the time.

When I think of my life’s formative events, experiencing Blessed John Paul II’s visit to Chicago, and meeting him in Rome number right up there with my Wedding, Confirmation and First Communion. When I’ve strayed or my spirit’s flagged, I’ve always had the inspiration from those encounters drawing me back.

What’s the point of World Youth Day? Look at all the crowds of young people gathered with Pope Benedict XVI in Madrid, with the Holy Spirit’s work hidden but active in each soul. Who knows how this encounter with the Holy Father and each other will impact each life? The meaning of World Youth Day is eternal, but for the needs of our suffering world NOW. 

A Walk to Town Location

I grew up in a "walk to town and train" location. A choice between two quaint train stations headed me to classes at DePaul University and, later, to my job at Wabash Street offices in Chicago. A little touch of Maybury exists in many towns studding train lines nationwide, and I always wanted to continue my childhood experience, living within walking distance of the rails in a town that embraced them. Often these little rail towns are historic, and residents work hard to keep their original flavor.


When my husband and I were dating, I remember long walks discussing where we'd like to someday settle. We agreed the local parish should be faithful and vibrant, and the location, a walk from town and rails. Also, that we would love to live in a college town. I remember getting that specific. We'll be celebrating our 21st anniversary October 7th, and, in many ways, are living in our dream location.


We had to make sacrifices. We could have purchased a larger tract home in a drive-to-everything location in a more far-flung suburb. We chose, instead, a little in-town, 3-bedroom ranch on a city-sized lot, centrally located between my husband and my families. It's a tight fit for our family. Now that the children are teens and pre-teen, we're forever bumping into each other in the galley kitchen and around tight corners. I do have times when I fantasize about finding a more spacious home in the country!


But I felt very blessed last night, as we headed for a walk into the mild, summer dusk. We strolled toward one of three little business districts surrounding our home. The kids broad-jumped impressive puddles left by a day of storms. We respectfully stood silent while a skunk ambled nearby on a lawn. The clouds were beautiful, the air fragrant with moist August blooms.


We live in a neighborhood where people walk. We're forever spotting the 97-year-old lady who perambulates her Yorkie in a basket in her rolling stroller, local kids training for track, city commuters heading home, a fun array of dog varieties taking owners for a walk. We've been re-instituting after-dinner family walks, and I'm glad!


On St. Patrick's or Memorial Day, we walk or bike to the parade. On Thanksgiving, our street closes and we watch crowds stroll by to prepare for the "Turkey Trot" race. On summer Wednesdays, a two-block stroll brings me to an open-air French market.


True, we're elbow to elbow with neighbors. Just like we jam possessions into undersized closets, we cram our garden into a narrow lot. We strain to glimpse any stars. In our proximity to city lights, we witness plenty of pale, pink night skies. But I love twilight strolls, hearing clinks of dishes from kitchens. I cherish the simplicity and freshness of 6:30 AM Saturday treks with my husband to grab coffee and a cup of oatmeal downtown. I delight leaving the car in the garage and walking with my children to parks, library, music store, coffee and pizza shop, jazz festivals on the green, and a college offering free classic movies and interesting concerts and lectures. We could even walk the half-mile or so to church, if we weren't so groggy early Sunday mornings.


A walk to town location. It calls for some pint-sized, crowded living. But it can also cut through the busy-ness of a typical technology-filled day. When we stroll with no destination but the journey, or take a twenty-minute walk to run an errand, instead of hopping in the car to get there in a hurry, we're choosing a simpler, more reflective life.

This photo I took of Mineral Point, Wisconsin, resembles a street from my historic, childhood rail town.

Walking with God in the Garden

God's creativity blooms forth.

In front of my city-sized lot runs a thoroughfare crawling with bumper-to-bumper traffic come rush hour. But 75 yards back, behind our 1950’s ranch, blooms three-dozen varieties of vegetables, herbs and flowers. I’m not alone in finding perspective, peace, and God’s companionship and healing in my garden – a sort of blooming, body and soul, amidst a technology-saturated world. 

With gardens offering retreat-like benefits along with countless practical perks, it’s no wonder the National Gardening Association (NGA) cites Americans as “consistently rating gardening as a favorite hobby.” In fact, NGA statistics show a 19% increase in Americans planning to grow edibles from 2008 to 2009.

St. Francis, lover of
God and His creation.

Of course, one stimulus to such enthusiasm might be recession. A nicely maintained food garden yields an average $500 return, according to NGA. Adding a few new perennials like asparagus, chives or rhubarb yearly expands a base of nice varieties to harvest early spring through late October. Growing annual seeds indoors to plant outside early spring is a cheerful, winter’s end project that also helps cut food costs.

I find the practical and esthetical blend of gardens irresistible. Phenomenal changes occur daily, and sometimes, even hourly. Early morning squash blossoms expand, begging to be stuffed with cheese, dredged in egg and flour, and stir-fried into a gourmet delicacy. Snap peas unready to pick at 7 AM, plump by dinner.

What a luxury, loading the table with fresh-picked produce.

I’ve lost my fear of bees, since we so nicely coexist. Robins and mourning doves flit by, unfazed by my now-familiar presence. The neighbor dog “Buck” pops his dark, Labrador head over the fence to grin, until I give him a friendly pat.

As for the plants, clearing riotous weeds to reveal order seems allegorical. Learning a “green thumb” is not genetic as much as developed through persistence, trial and error, and following wise advice from more experienced gardeners, is heartening.

Echinacea -- beautiful and medicinal.

I’ve had my summers of growing tomatoes lush with foliage but bare of fruit, planting seeds that refused germination, babying green peppers to watch them spread leaves but refuse to flower or bear. But for the past several years, my mini, raised-bed gardens, have flourished.

After a friend recommended Mel Bartholomew’s method of “Square Foot Gardening” a few years ago, I devised manageable plots in raised beds. Amending soil with equal portions of compost, peat and vermiculite, made it fluffy and amenable to tender plants. (I later learned people are raising health concerns over vermiculite, so I’ve switched to perlite, an amorphous volcanic glass.) Such methods make gardening accessible to the elderly, very young, developmentally disabled, people recovering from illness -- even those with severe physical limitations.

Planting gourmet lettuce in partial shade helps plants
survive the heat. I'm still harvesting lettuce in August. 

In fact, I suffered from a concussion and neck injury this summer and spent minimal time outside, yet still found my micro-gardens manageable, harvesting baskets of beans, hearty quantities of cilantro, and gourmet lettuce galore. Fresh-picked raspberries garnish breakfasts.  Spicy Egyptian scallions enliven sandwiches. Heirloom tomato plants are flowering and fruiting, promising an abundant yield.

Planting in raised beds has turned me into a successful
gardener -- finally!

One day, when healing from my injuries seemed interminable, I clapped on a hat, sat cross-legged next to my string beans, and sang while I harvested, until the blues lifted. I have a weakness for old, sentimental songs, and I enjoy singing this favorite hymn from 1913 that sums up the lure of a garden:

I Come to the Garden Alone

I come to the garden alone

While the dew is still on the roses

And the voice I hear

Sounding in my ear,

The Son of God discloses

And I walk with Him

And I talk with Him

And He tells me I am His own

And the joy I feel

As I tarry here

None other has ever known…

By C. Austin Miles.

A garden's delicate beauty helps us
transcend earth.

Not only does gardening provide inexpensive, nutrition-rich food, develop biceps (from shoveling, weeding, constructing supports for plants, etc.), provide sun’s Vitamin D through our hours of labor, and soothe frazzled nerves, it helps us transcend the earth, reaping rich spiritual rewards. Of course, frequenting the sacraments and adoration chapel, nurturing a rich prayer life, reading scripture, are all foundational. But for a nice hobby to enrich one's walk in faith, gardening is ideal.  The vibrant palette and fragrance of plants is uplifting. The teeming life of worms and butterflies, bees and songbirds seems optimistic. They’re tireless and productive, as we should be. Seeing piquant and healing herbs proliferate and tomatoes plump transmits this incredible sense of God’s creative genius. It’s all so inspiring.

An "outdoor room" with a reflective mood.

God visited the Garden of Eden just before sunset (Genesis 3:8). Jesus chose a garden for quiet prayer in the final hours of his life. And for several Sundays in July, readings in the Liturgy were horticultural. Matthew 13, for example, refers to seeds cast on rich or rocky ground, and probes questions of why weeds coexist with fruitful plants. Struggling with recalcitrant weeds, scrubbing stubborn soil from gardening-calloused fingers, encountering thorny stems on delicately flowered plants – all help us relate more personally to God’s workings in creation and our lives.

Religious art and statuary turn
gardens into retreats.

Spring roared in like a lion this year, but I remember 40-degree days when the skies were a gray canvas -- and I still couldn’t resist running outside to check on my chives and Egyptian scallions, fragrant spearmint, and spinach seedlings shivering in the breeze. Now, as August opens with record-breaking heat, the garden pulses with life, drinking thirstily and producing prodigiously.

“The earth and its fullness are the Lord’s,” says 1 Corinthians 11:27. I thank God even those of us in the city can put hands to soil -- that His voice can be so clearly discerned, as we “walk with Him” in the garden.

Practical gardening tips:

Hostas are the heartiest plants I know,
besides weeds, of course!

        1) Go organic. According to the February 1995 American Journal of Public Health, the risk of children developing cancer is increased four times in homes where chemical weed and insect killers are used. Corn gluten for heartening grass to be more weed-resistant, liquid garlic for pest control and encouraging robust growth, and nematodes to curb grubs, are just a few natural solutions we’ve found for common gardening woes.
2)   Planting in raised beds divided into miniature plots provides protection from flooding and a grid for a wider variety of plants.
3)   Raising planting beds on waist-high stilts makes gardening accessible to the elderly and disabled.
4)   Amending soil with 1/3 portions of peat, compost, and a substance like perlite keeps growing medium fertile and nicely aerated.
5)    Drying out more easily than plots sewn directly into the ground, raised beds must be watered diligently.
6)   Adding religious art and statuary turns your plot into a prayer garden. Saint Fiacre is the patron saint of gardeners, Saint Francis is popularly associated with nature, and a Blessed Virgin statue surrounded by lilies becomes a “Mary Garden.”
7)   Chatting up knowledgeable workers at a local garden shop specializing in organic, heirloom and regional plants, helps you discover special, hearty or unusual varieties that grow well in your planting zone.
8)   Exchanging clippings of perennials with friends inexpensively adds plants like strawberries, scallions and mint to your garden.

Let squash crawl up trellises

or they'll take over your garden!
This pumpkin reseeded

itself from one tossed out 
last year.

9)   Adding layers of newspapers and then covering deeply with woodchips or peat creates pathways and borders between planting beds. It looks attractive and is a cheap, efficient way to keep down weeds.
10) Starting late in the growing season is fine. Some crops, like garlic, can be planted in the fall. Plywood frames for raised beds can be assembled over winter, and indoor composting systems even allow all-year composting.
11)  Following good composting techniques will heat your pile internally and kill weed seeds, so you won’t be sowing weeds with your veggie seeds.
12) Taking time to enjoy the garden makes all your effort worthwhile. Put a chair there and a little table for your mug of coffee or tea, and bask in your garden’s beauty, preferably early morning when the “dew is still on the roses,” or in the golden glow of dusk. Even a five-minute visit before or after the day’s work, is rejuvenating.
13) Weeding ten minutes daily keeps maintenance under control.
14) Involving children in planting and planning beds, even if gardening isn’t their “thing,” helps them develop a good work ethic. As part of the household, they should contribute a fair share in the production and harvesting of fresh food for the table. Who knows? Some day they may even continue the gardening tradition within their own families.

Photos and story by Marianna Bartholomew