The saturated clay is frigid against my knees, but like one kneeling in prayer, I am grounded in my work.
Muddy trenches have been dug before me. To my left lie a spade, trowel and canvas gloves. The gloves, caked in wet clay, were hastily discarded. It’s March, and the air is biting, but the final frost has passed.
It is the early spring planting season. In between deluges of rain, I work to get the potatoes nestled into their trenches. They must rest in early spring’s chill until summer’s sun beckons them upward. Despite the cold, they will take root and thrive.
It is a quiet defiance that stirs my soul, mirroring my own human resiliency. For the upcoming months, through drought or downpour, I will remain the steward of this small piece of earth, trusting that abundance will spring forth.
But in a time when food can be effortlessly bought, why do I choose to return to the soil, season after season?
I could walk to the marché in Paris or drive to the store in the French countryside and easily purchase produce from France and elsewhere in Europe. It doesn’t necessarily need to be “in season” to procure, and I have my pick of “bio” or traditionally grown products.
It is quick, easy and copious. So why do I spend so much time on my knees in the dirt?
(Credit: Michelle Wahila)
Tending my small plot of vegetables has become a spiritual discipline. It contains all the markers of a robust spiritual practice: the repetitive, centering motions of digging, weeding and watering; a rootedness to the Divine in prayer as I spend hours on my knees; hopefulness for the future and the promise of a harvest; and quiet moments in the open air, where I listen for the Divine’s voice and marvel at the majesty of creation.
In this rootedness, I have found space for contemplation, the joy of sinking my fingers into the earth, and the deep satisfaction of a plentiful harvest. But gardening has become more than a spiritual practice.
It is a refuge from the noise of the news cycle and pressures of life. In this tension between the spiritual and material worlds, I have sought to be more conscientious.
Our strongest spiritual practices always intersect with the call to liberation, love and the ways of God in the world. An act of faithful endurance, tending my garden bridges the gap between the material and spiritual worlds, echoing the history of gardening as both resistance and abundance.
Through planting, I connect to the earth’s rhythms and a long tradition of collective action, where individuals have resisted hardship and reclaimed their power by growing.
During World War II, roughly half of American families had a Victory Garden. By 1943, there were more than 20 million acres of gardens in the U.S. By 1944, these gardens supplied over 40% of the nation’s produce.
By 1945, more than 8 million tons of food had been grown by American families, many of whom were urban gardeners, planting on rooftops, in empty lots and small backyards. This was nearly equal to the commercial production of fresh vegetables, and the abundance made a difference.
Victory Gardens ensured adequate food supply for civilians and troops, and their success resulted from collective action. Government agencies, private foundations, businesses and schools worked together to achieve their communal goal of feeding the masses. They provided land, gave instructions on planting and harvesting, and supplied the seeds for the common good.
Victory Gardens in various forms, from window boxes to larger plots, sprung up to provide sustenance and hope in a time of war. Fresh food was only a sliver of the abundance.
Once harvested, produce was canned and preserved at home, reducing the need for packaging materials and transport as well as the overall demand for commercially grown crops. It encouraged people to conserve precious resources for the soldiers fighting on the front lines. Whether serving in battle or contributing from home, Americans were fighting for freedom and democracy in whatever ways they could.
Just as Victory Gardens bolstered wartime resilience, today’s gardens can play a vital role in strengthening communities and challenging systemic issues. As the U.S. government strips resources from small farmers and global food prices surge due to tariffs and economic instability, tending a garden becomes an act of faithful protest and an investment in the local community.
Amid economic and political turmoil, gardening serves as a transformative reclaiming of independence, reminding us that the power to nourish and empower communities ultimately rests in the hands of the people.
Historically, planting a Victory Garden was framed as a patriotic duty, a way for ordinary citizens to help shape the well-being of their country, even during wartime. While today’s Victory Gardens may not directly sustain the nation’s troops, they serve as a reminder that democracy thrives when people are empowered in life-giving ways.
A symbol of hope and hardiness in times of war, modern Victory Gardens can represent resistance to government policies that make essential needs inaccessible. To a government stripping people of fundamental human rights, the Victory Garden serves as a potent reminder that democracy is not just about elections won, but about people having the power and the rights to shape their own futures.
Planting a garden in uncertain times is a declaration that we will not accept the erosion of our rights, the undermining of food security or the denial of the essential resources required for life. It becomes a quiet yet prophetic act of opposition and endurance, pushing back against political neglect while fostering connection, contemplation and stewardship of the earth.
Kneeling in the soil, nurturing life, is a form of liberation that roots us in hope, abundance and the possibility of a more just world. Each seed planted is a reaffirmation that we, the people, will not relinquish our right to dignity and a future shaped by our own hands.
(Credit: Michelle Wahila)
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Rev. Michelle Wahila is an ordained PCUSA pastor, founder of Ruffled by Grace, and sought-after officiant and retreat leader. She creates heartfelt celebrations and soulful experiences that blend tradition with imagination. Now living in a 19th-century farmhouse in rural France with her family and a menagerie of pets, she enjoys gardening, making jam, and savoring a good cup of coffee.
