This year, because of the uncertainty of the Covid-19 crisis, I started my little plants for my vegetable garden from seeds instead of buying them ready-to-plant from our local co-op. Diligently, my daughters and I worked for hours planting each tiny seed into its little seeding pot. Every morning, we gently watered our seeds and placed them out into the warm sun, praying they would grow. And in the evenings, we carefully carried our hoped-for plants, tray-by-tray, back to the potting table and under the safety of our covered porch so that the late-spring frost wouldn’t harm them.

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One chilly morning, we walked outside to check on our little seeds and place them out into the sun, and to our amazement, during the night, they had begun to sprout. Their tender green leaves were bravely breaking their heads out through the dark soil. And my girls and I squealed with excitement, celebrating that our seeding-experiment had worked.

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For weeks, each morning, we continued carrying our little plants out into the sun, and each night, safely back onto the porch. Then, one morning, my girls went outside to check on how our plants fared through the night while I stayed inside to make breakfast.

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“Oh, no!!! Mama! Mama!” my three girls shrieked in unison. “Something got into our plants last night, and now they’re everywhere.”

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“What?” I hollered back as I set down the food in my hands and walked outside.

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My mouth dropped as my brain slowly processed the destruction. There, on my back patio, dark potting soil was scattered everywhere. And right in the middle of the wreckage, all of my baby tomatoes were carelessly thrown down onto the cold concrete with their pots broken, roots exposed, and fragile leaves wilting.

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I stood there in my pajamas and tightly wrapped in my bathrobe — staring at what seemed like an unfixable situation. But at that moment, I did the only thing I could think of. I kneeled to the ground, hoping to save just a few. One-by-one, I gently picked up each limp stem, scooped up the scattered soil, and pressed the dying plants’ roots back into the pieces of the broken plastic pots.

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Uncontrollable tears started spilling from my eyes, down my cheeks, and onto my little tomatoes as I tried to save one tiny plant after another. Maybe the weeks of suppressed angst over the world falling apart had finally taken its toll, and now, I was falling apart over broken tomatoes.

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“What’s going on here?” I heard a deep voice ask from behind.

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Sitting on the ground covered in dirt and red-faced from crying over broken tomatoes, I sniffled, answering, “I don’t know. I think an animal rooted up my baby tomatoes last night. I worked so hard on growing them . . . “

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“I think you can save most of them,” he told me. “Maybe, ” I whispered back.

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For over an hour, I sat on the ground, trying to save my little plants with dirty hands and tear and soil streaked cheeks. After much effort, I finally put them somewhat back together. They were all still so pitiful, wilted in their broken pots. And then I slowly filled up each broken pot with water and watched as the water spilled over and through the cracked sides and rims.

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I sighed—knowing I did my best. But I also shed more tears for the plants too broken to save. I walked back inside and began washing the dirt out from under my fingernails and off of my face; meanwhile, my husband was ordering me a cheap greenhouse from Amazon.

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Two days later, my greenhouse arrived, and I carefully transferred my plants, tray-by-tray, into the safety of its shelter. And last weekend, we triumphantly planted our little plants deep into the fertile soil of our garden. Despite their hard beginning, most of my tomatoes had survived!

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Throughout this Covid-19 crisis, I’ve often felt like my little uprooted and ravished tomato plants. It seemed like all things stable were quickly snatched out from under my feet, and there I was, lying on the ground, wilting with my roots exposed outside of the safety of my soil. But I’ve also thought about how the Lord loves us far more that I love my little plants. And if I tirelessly worked to replant and heal each fragile plant after their near destruction, how much more tirelessly will God work to heal and replant each one of us after our past few months of brokenness and heartache? And if I mourned the loss of my plants too damaged to save, how much more does God mourn the ones we’ve lost from this worldwide crisis? His heart breaks along with ours.

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Our job now, moving forward, is simply to trust the Lord to work things out. We don’t have to fear tomorrow or the next tomorrow. We merely need to sit here today, trusting that God has a plan, and He will reveal the next step, bit-by-bit. Jeremiah 17:7-8, “But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.”

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Unfortunately, there’s no promise of this virus going away anytime soon. But we are promised that if we choose to trust God amid these uncertain times, we will not fear, nor will we whither. And, even during seasons of drought, we will continue to bear fruit. Let’s root our faith deep in trust right now. Through trusting God, we will discover the strength and grace to face whatever comes our way.

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Much love , Macki