Scattered Seed and the Harvest: The Best Things That I’ve Grown I Never Planted

Abstract

A physician struggling to grow in her career finds an apt analogy in being a fledgling gardener and learns to trust that God's hand has been planting the seeds all along.

The healthiest plant currently in my garden is, as best I can guess, a squash vine that will likely bear a pumpkin, grown from an errant seed scooped from our Halloween pumpkin carving last year. Not the tomato plants I optimistically bought from our local big box store, which yielded a reasonable harvest the summer before. Not the watermelon seeds I purchased from the natural foods grocery.

I’m not a gardener,¹ but after the COVID-19 pandemic started, I thought another attempt at the hobby would augment my toddlers’ education since we were home more often. Never mind the years of withered rosemary and neglected cilantro pots I’d left in my wake. I had started composting the year before and gaily sprinkled some of the rich earth on my new plants as I envisioned my crop of harvested broccoli and peppers.

For the past three years, the best things that have grown are not ones I have planted. That first year, a mystery vine grew out of my compost and took over one side of my house. The fruits had the green and globular appearance of small watermelons, the internal shape and smell of a cucumber when sliced open, and the taste of death when eaten raw. My internet and gardener-friend sleuthing led me to believe it was some sort of Asian cucumber that is only palatable when cooked, so I made several curries from the multiple melons I harvested. My initial excitement about the appearance of these squash inspired me to buy watermelon seeds the next year. I bought Sugar Baby and Crimson Sweet varieties and watched as the green spheres elongated and turned tan, somehow morphing into butternut squash along the way. I hypothesize that a chipmunk may somehow have traded seeds for what we had tossed into our compost or that the seeds had been mislabeled. Either way, I enjoyed enough butternut squash over the months. One still graces my pantry shelves.

I’ve reflected upon failed attempts at gardening in light of recent challenges in my personal and professional life. For the first time as a physician, I was struggling with burnout. A series of multiple events—difficult personalities at work, the everyday struggle to keep up with the electronic medical record, and frustrations with getting clinical trials off the ground—had mounted over the months. My carefully constructed academic career is based upon a balance between education, clinical care, and research collaborations, and the scales were not tipping in my favor.

I contemplated my options. Perhaps dropping back from full time would be better, so I could spend more time with my children. Maybe I needed a change of scenery, so I entertained the idea of moving to another academic institution. I could let go of one component of my academic triad of education, clinic, and research.

Several colleagues had encouraged me to apply for an educational role that seemed out of reach. I did so, not expecting to be a finalist, but was thrilled when I got one of the two available spots as a mentor for medical students. In this new role, I have more direct teaching with medical students, which encompasses some of my most passionate interests in medicine as far as professionalism, ethics, and the humanities. As a result of this role, I reconfigured my research and clinical responsibilities. I feel happier and more invigorated as a physician than I have in many years.

I realized a deficiency in my outlook about my career. My plans. Things were not going as I had envisioned. Me, myself, and I were dictating the course. How much time was I bringing my troubles before the feet of Jesus? Had my prayers been focused on discerning God's will for me?

Throughout this time, I thought I had been the one planting the seeds in the garden of my life. I realize now that God's hand has been the one guiding the scattering of the seed and the ultimate harvest. I can do my part to nourish the soil and extirpate the weeds to work in harmony with God's providence. If I neglect to seek His will, though, the rocky ground of my life will not be hospitable to growth. Being hyperfocused on worldly gain can allow worldly anxiety and thorns to stunt any growth (Matthew 13:3-9, 18-23).

At the end of the harvest this past year, I dumped my withered tomato plants, soil, and all, into the compost bin. I trust that God will bring it all back to fruition in good time.