Dear Hildegaard

Milkweed, daddies, and doxology

Dear Hildegaard,

Our backyard zucchini is getting a little too tough to eat, the seeds too big and fibrous. This is mostly because I forgot to harvest them at the right time and instead let them grow and grow in that space between the garden bed and the woodpile. You know the one. No Man’s Land. Spider-ville. But you asked me for a “Daddy squash” to go with your small, yellow, “Baby squash,” and your medium-sized, “Mama squash,” and I couldn’t say no. How could I? So I pulled back the tangle of tomato vines and entered the snaky, scratchy bramble, only to find four gigantic, dark green, “Daddy squash.” You were thrilled. 

They are still sitting side-by-side on our wooden stump-turned-coffee-table outside. The internet says they are only good for stew at this point. And I have never felt much like adding zucchini to stew. So there they will sit and rot, but for now, they are something greater than dinner and something less tragic than waste. They are daddies. 

You pick them up and put them with the rest of the Squash Family. You rub their green, rubber-like skin on your cheek. So far, this seems to be your favorite way to experience the world: by rubbing its texture on your precious cheek. Other things you chase, like our cat, Ron, or the monarch butterflies that have been showing up in the sky above our garden. 

Speaking of monarchs, we have no idea what they have been eating. Our neighbor down the street has an entire milkweed garden in her front yard that has remained untouched: no holes in the leaves or a single chrysalis to be found. We are bewildered, but glad to see that the caterpillars found sustenance somewhere. Food enough to become what they needed to be.

Yesterday, when you and I were sitting on a blanket in the grass sharing some fish crackers, I felt like breaking into worship. Living in survival mode for so long, as our little family has, drains the body. As does praying prayers of pure petition. I miss talking to God about who He is, and how glorious His creation is, rather than simply pleading with Him for help. As I sat with you - precious you - looking at your round face and blunt-cut bangs, and at our garden, brambles and all, I started to sing: 

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. 
Praise Him, all creatures, here below…

But then I got embarrassed and stopped. Because I knew the neighbors might hear me. And you were looking at me with a funny grin. Nevertheless, the thought kept tugging at me: God deserves worship. So I continued:

Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Your raised eyebrows and crinkled smile said: Silly Mama. But it’s alright. Who knows? My oddities might just become your spiritual disciplines. We continued to eat salty fish crackers under the sun, and looked about for what to do next. Dig up some overgrown kohlrabi? Take a dip in your plastic, blue pool? Take a walk down the street to collect some interesting sticks? There are so many ways to enjoy a day under God’s new mercies.  

I hope that no matter what troubles you encounter - what disappointments and sickness, rejection or failure - that you will break into doxology during random moments of your life. That you will continue to look for monarch caterpillars, and plant plenty of milkweed to feed them.

Cover image by Jennie Clavel.