The Mortgage Lifter
|Heavy lifting. Photo by Rick Caldwell, Flickr, CC BY-NC 2.0|
"This variety," my friend with the green thumb said when he handed me the heirloom seedling, "is the Mortgage Lifter. It was so popular that the farmer who developed it was able to sell enough plants to pay off his mortgage."
I planted it one month ago, right before the constant rains, in a bright orange container with a saucer underneath, and already it is three feet high. The two varieties next to it seem to cower before its robust bushiness. Performance anxiety, perhaps? Everything about it shouts health and vitality. It is the tomato equivalent of beating one's chest before catching the next swinging vine.
In three weeks I will move this brawler to a new home with -- for the first time -- a yard. In six weeks I will tend it alongside my hot-off-the-presses husband. In nine weeks I will feed the early fruits to friends in our dining room. In twelve weeks I will boil and peel and squish together sauce for the winter ahead, to be retrieved from the basement only when the cold dark becomes too much and I need to swallow summer again.
I water it not knowing how much is enough. I turn it to the sun though the sun is on the move. I caress the vivid green leaves and will it to keep going. I refuse to pluck the suckers. The plant's unwieldy growth delights me. Despite my uninformed attention, it flourishes on its own terms, crowing with each fresh inch sprouted overnight, "You are not the caretaker -- you are the witness!"
Fretting over it will not yield a bumper crop. Trusting it will. And look, already, four tiny green tomatoes sprout. An immediate promise. An early gift.
Prayer #300: The Hope of the Harvest
Each tiny seed
an ancient creed
that bursts and bleeds
beyond the weeds
to ably feed
my hungry need
with God agreed
I too shall heed.