The First Day of Sowing

It is a cloudy day. The Father leads the way out the door, His Little One close behind. She’s clad in bright pink pants, green caterpillar raincoat over top. Her yellow rain boots are confidently on the wrong feet, toes angled outward. She’s a burst of light against the clouds and muted tones of early spring. The Father smiles as she chatters, pigtails bouncing as they make their way into the garden. 

The earth is damp, the smell of newly awakened soil hitting the pair as they make their way through overgrown rows, the evidence of last year’s harvest found in browned leaves, half-decomposed. They start in the farthest corner of the garden, the one most dense with withered weeds. 

“Come, take your spade. We must turn the soil. It’s been sleeping, but now it’s time to wake it up again. New growth is coming soon,” the Father tells His Little One. 

“Wake up!” she whispers to the soil, twisting and turning her little shovel. The Father grabs His big spade, thrusting it into the ground with all His body. His Little One barely makes a dent, her little spade going an inch into the soil before she pulls it out again. 

“Why do we have to plant again each year?” she asks, her gaze upwards at the blanket of grey clouds. 

“Every plant we harvest starts as a seed. Some plants, like the fruit trees in the yard, sleep for the winter and then flower again. But other plants need our help to grow; we harvest and tend their seeds, planting when we know they will be ready to grow again.” The Father gazes down at His Little One, her muddy footprints so little compared to His own. She is so precious. 

“How do we know if they’re ready?” His Little One asks, dragging her shovel around in circles. 

“We hope. Do you see how the sun has melted all the snow? And listen, can you hear the birds chirping?” They pause to listen. His Little One nods, gazing up at Him with her wide shining eyes. What joy those eyes bring to His heart!

“We can see and hear the hope of springtime all around us. And by planting seeds, we share in that hope.” 

Soon the furthest row is nearly cleared, the Father’s spade handle warm and worn from His labor. His Little One’s shovel sits off to the side. 

“Can I use the big shovel?” she asks. 

“Here, shovel with me.” The Father brings His Little One close. The shovel is taller than her. He helps position one of her little rainbooted feet on the step, her hands reaching just above the collar. Together they push the shovel into the ground, turning the soil until the row is finished. 

His Little One plops down, pink pants meeting muddy ground. 

“I’m tired,” she whimpers and sighs. 

“Preparing the soil is hard work,” the Father says, leaning His shovel against the garden wall. He offers His Little One some water, cold and fresh. It tickles her throat as it goes down. She takes another sip, thirsty for more. 

“There’s so many more rows,” she says, looking out. There is much work to do. 

“Yes, our garden has many rows. But we go one row at a time, remembering where we’ve planted,” the Father says. He pulls a packet of seeds from His breast pocket. 

“These are the littlest seeds we will be planting. Little, like you! Your hands are the perfect size to hold them.” He brushes a few pieces of hair out of His Little One’s face; hairs that have strayed from the ponytails. Her cheeks are rosy from the chill spring air. Her shining eyes gaze up at Him, a smile on her face. She is the delight of His heart. 

“How do the seeds know it’s time to grow?” she asks. 

“We give them what they need: food, water, warmth. They are not so different from you; do you know when it’s time to grow?” Her Father smiles at her, eyebrows raised. Her face scrunches in concentration as she thinks. 

“I don’t know. I just grow without thinking about it. Then one day I’m less littler than I used to be,” she says. 

“Just like these little seeds. We give them what they need. We don’t see the growth right away, but, with time, they reach up towards the sky.” The Father shows His Little One the tiny seeds; they look like little freckles in His big and battered hands. She takes one in her chubby and soft hands, cupping it like a precious pearl. 

“Come, let us sow together.” Her Father shows her how to dig the shallow holes, planting and burying. She hums and whispers encouragement to the little seeds as they work. 

“You can do it!” The Father hears her say. “Someday soon, you’ll be as big as me,” she tells another. The Father smiles. There’s no one else quite like His Little One. 

Backs bent, knees covered in soil, they reach the end of the row. It looks so neat and orderly where the Father’s hands have touched. Her little fingerprints are visible where she’s patted down the soil, a line of dirt now underneath her fingernails. 

“Well done, My Little One,” the Father says, picking her up in His sturdy arms. She wraps her short and pudgy arms around His neck, burying her mud-stained face inside His chest. He can feel her rapid heartbeat, prancing and dancing. She can feel His steady heartbeat, a lullaby that sometimes puts her to sleep. 

“It’s going to rain,” the Father says. Together they gaze up at the overcast sky. 

“What about the other rows?” asks His Little One. 

“We will get to them tomorrow. But presently the earth will water today’s work. And that’s enough for now. These are the seeds that are ready to begin growing,” The Father says. They look out over everything they’ve done. It is very good, and the Father is proud of His Little One. Though it took a little longer with her unskilled hands, the Father wouldn’t have it any other way. Someday, her hands will grow more steady, and she will be ready to follow in the path He’s prepared. But He hopes that she will never stray from His gaze, that she will remain right by His side. 

Together they stand, Father and Daughter, until the first drops of rain.