While this story is pure fiction, I do dedicate it to the memory of my grandparents, Ray and Irene Yeakley.  They both grew gardens of love, guidance and sometimes real food  as they raised their children and multiple grandchildren with God's truth.

Old Mrs. Parson’s Garden

All the children of the small neighborhood called her Old Mrs. Parson. All but Sammy. One time Sammy called her Old Mrs. Parson and his daddy heard and took his strap to Sammy's backside leaving a sore reminder of what would happen if, "I ever hear you use such disrespectful language again! You call her Mrs. Parson, or ma'am. Nothing more, nothing less, you hear?"

And Sammy heard. That's how his daddy was. Quick to whip, quick to hit the bottle, quick to forget.

Sammy spent a lot of time away from his daddy and his strap.  But on those days when he couldn't get away early enough, Daddy would give him a good whipping, take to the bottle and then leave him alone for days on end.

Maybe that's why Sammy gravitated toward Mrs. Parson and her garden. From his earliest recollections of her, she took on the persona of grandma and mother. Something lacking in Sammy's real life.

He had to pass her house in the morning to get to school and always took the same route home in the afternoon. Most days, she'd be working in that small plot of ground. Sammy once measured it for some fencing.  Not a lot of land, 12 ft by 12 ft, more or less. It was, in fact, almost her entire front yard. The black, plastic fencing was bought at a discount store and Sammy put it in for her, taking time to make sure the lines were straight and true.  That's how Mrs. Parson insisted it be. "Like my life," she said, "straight and true before the Lord, that's how I live and that's how I sow my seeds." 

Mrs. Parson had the next-door neighbor use her Polaroid camera to take a picture of her and Sammy in front of that black, plastic fencing. Both beaming, she with her arm around the slight boy's figure.

Rainy days would send Mrs. Parson to her tiny porch, rocking in an old wooden rocker someone once left by the sidewalk for the trash man.

Sammy had fixed the arms on the chair; they'd been ready to fall off. Then he sanded down a couple of places where the wood was rough from years of use.  Finally, he stained it with some left over stain he found in his daddy's tool. Daddy never missed it. He hadn't been in that tool shed since the night Sammy's momma left the hard man with the painful strap.

Mrs. Parson sat in that old rocker and smiled to the children as they passed, calling out greetings and reminders about Sunday school at the Baptist Church where she taught.

Sammy went with her most Sunday mornings, long as his daddy wasn't being mean with the strap and keeping him locked in his room for spite.

He'd listen to the Bible stories, sing the songs and learn the verses. Mrs. Parson handed out little coupons when the children memorized a Bible verse. They were good for candy and other treats like marbles and whistles.

Most times, Sammy would leave his treasures at Mrs. Parson's house. Just for safekeeping and a reason to come and visit.

Each day, they spent time checking out the little plants in her garden, pulling a weed here and there. Then they'd visit on the front porch, Mrs. Parson in the old rocker, Sammy on the top step. Always with a glass of milk and a plate of her homemade cookies.

"Boys are always hungry, got empty bellies that need filling with milk and cookies." She'd say and then add, "So how are those cookies? Not sure they got real good this time, tried a new recipe."

Sammy would smile, mouth full of chocolate, raisins, oatmeal, molasses, not able to swallow quick enough to answer.

She'd smile back at the boy, "Well, since you aren't sure, better give you a couple more... don't see that I'm going to need to eat all those cookies."  And she'd fill his glass to the brim, load up his plate one more time before he'd head back to the dark house, a block up the street, and whatever was waiting for him.

Once in Sunday school, Mrs. Parson brought in a bunch of her plants, taken from the good soil in her small yard and planted into small containers for the children. A Bible verse waving like a flag from a popsicle stick and a smiley face she'd painted on the outside of the clay pots with the words, "God loves you and so do I. Remember to sow seeds for him."

Sammy took that plant home and hid it in his dreary room, remembering to place it on his window sill each day for some sunshine and carefully water it so that it would live.

One morning, Mrs. Parson wasn't outside to greet the children, or work in her garden. Sammy knew in his gut that something wasn't right, but he had to get to school. On the way home, he stopped and stood on her porch, knocking and knocking.

The next-door neighbor came out of her house. Wiping her eyes, she told Sammy that Mrs. Parsons had gone to garden in heaven for Jesus adding "you'd best get on home now, boy."

Sammy turned, a blow to his body that almost bent him in half.  Slowly, he walked past the 12 ft by 12 ft garden with the black, plastic fencing that lined up straight and true when he heard the neighbor calling him back.

"Wait,boy! I almost forgot. She left this for you."  The neighbor came off her steps and met Sammy halfway. "She was holding this in her hands when I found her this morning. She said to give it to you. Said to tell you 'Sow those seeds, Sammy. God loves you and so do I.'"

Sammy took the precious picture of the 12 ft by 12 ft garden with the black, plastic fence that lined up straight and true, the old woman and young boy beaming.

When he got back to his dreary room, he was glad to hear his daddy snoring and sleeping off a binge. He looked at the picture, caressing it in his hands and turned it over. On the back words were written... "My dear friend, Sammy. I pray he grows up straight and true for the Lord."

Many years later, Sammy stood in front of a congregation in a black gown with a white collar.  His first day at the Baptist church in a large city far from the small neighborhood he grew up in.

As he opened his Bible to the text he was using for his first sermon, he saw the picture of the 12 ft by 12 ft garden with the black, plastic fence that lined up straight and true, the old woman and young boy beaming.

His throat caught for one moment in the fine church were 600 people sat expectantly. He stood quiet, head bowed. Then he raised his head, spoke clearly and with power.

"This morning I will preach from Ecclesiastes 11:6.  I use the New American Standard Translation.  "Sow your seed in the morning and do not be idle in the evening, for you do not know whether morning or evening sowing will succeed, or whether both of them alike will be good."