The Garden Grows

The soil is warm now, soft and fragrant beneath the morning sun. I can feel the hum of life in every patch of garden outside my doors—the careful tending, the patient watering, the joy of watching something small and green stretch toward the light. It is gardening season in Northwest Indiana, and with it comes a quiet lesson that echoes through every corner of my being.

The world often tells us to rush. To produce. To measure our value in speed and results. But gardens defy that logic. Gardens teach patience. They teach attention. And they teach hope—because every time a seed is planted, there is a belief that something beautiful will come.

Not all growth is fast. Not all progress is loud. Some of the most meaningful transformation takes place slowly, beneath the surface. You don’t always notice the roots until the flowers bloom. And sometimes, the roots come before you even realize anything is growing at all.

I’ve seen this truth unfold time and again in the lives of those who call this place home. A person begins to attend services again after a long absence. Another volunteers behind the scenes, unsure if they’re needed, and slowly becomes an anchor of support. A child plants their feet nervously on the chancel for their first time in front of the congregation and is met with applause and encouragement. These are seeds, planted in faith.

There was a time, not so long ago, when the garden behind me sat quiet and neglected, overcome by weeds and forgotten plans. Then one spring, a handful of congregants came together—just a few at first—to clear the brush, amend the soil, and begin again. They planted flowers, but more importantly, they planted community. I watched as that garden became a meeting place for laughter and learning, for shared tools and shared meals. It started small, but it grew—just like us.

And like any good garden, this community thrives when it is nurtured with care. When we show up for each other. When we water our shared values with patience, humility, and love. When we pull the weeds of resentment or apathy before they can take root. When we pause to admire the blossoms we’ve helped grow—not out of pride, but out of reverence for the miracle of connection.

You don’t have to be a gardener to understand this rhythm. Every conversation you start, every smile you offer, every listening ear you lend—these are acts of cultivation. They may not seem like much at first, but over time, they shape the character of this place. They shape us. They shape the spirit of belonging, which grows stronger with every small, loving act.

This week, as we move from reflection into action, I invite you to ask: What am I planting? And how am I tending to it?

Maybe it’s the courage to speak your truth. Maybe it’s the grace to forgive. Maybe it’s the resilience to keep going,even when the growth is slow. Maybe it’s simply showing up, again and again, in a world that so often asks us to withdraw.

Whatever it is, know that your efforts matter. I see them. I feel them. And the community around you is changed because of them. Even when no one says it aloud, even when it seems no one notices—your kindness, your time, your presence makes a difference.

Let this be a season not only of flowers and vegetables, but of intention. Of soul-gardening. Of planting kindness and watching it take root in unexpected places. Of tending to your relationships, your dreams, and your inner spirit with the same loving attention you might give to a fragile sprout.

And if you are in a season where growth feels hard—where the soil is dry or the sky feels heavy—know this: there is still time. The rain will come. The light will shift. And when it does, I will be here, holding space for your blooming.

With every creak and whisper, I stand ready to hold your stories.

Yours in spirit,

The Spirit of UUNWI