Reed Branson: All about Hope
Being Together While We’re Apart
Because we all miss our Fondren family, here are our Sequester Stories—a series of stories and photos by Fondren folks sharing what our “pandemic lives” are about.
Reed Branson and Beverly Ray
I knew there was something in the Bible about letting your fields lie “fallow,’’ but that’s not why I skipped planting tomatoes last year. At least, I didn’t think so. I was just tired and busy and decided that if it felt like a chore—like mowing the lawn—I needed to let it go. So, in the Spring of 2019, I didn’t plant a thing. My brother-in-law mentioned again the Biblical reference and said he thought it was about every seven years (it is—see Exodus 23:11). I counted back seasons since I first used my grandfather’s old tiller to plow up six three-foot by ten-foot plots in a sunny spot in the bottom of our backyard. Sure enough—it had been seven years.
I started gardening with visions of a diverse vegetable garden and summer dinner plates loaded with beans, corn, squash, peas, and buttermilk (sans cow). But I found that besides the planting and the tending, you also have to be ready to either cook or can—all on the garden’s schedule. And between work and kids and vacations, that never seemed to really work out, aside from some good yellow squash casseroles. Even the squash proved problematic, as apparently squash bores lie dormant in every square inch of soil on the planet, patiently waiting to devour squash vines and with them the dreams of casual vegetable gardeners. My brother-in-law keeps a hive of bees in our yard (which is the granola addict’s equivalent of Exxon keeping an oil well on your back 40), so I am reluctant to sprinkle Sevin Dust on my squash to fight these evil bores.
Quickly, my gardening devolved to just tomatoes and cucumbers. I planted cucumbers from seeds given to me by a former state legislator from Jones County whose father-in-law had brought this variety back from Okinawa after WWII. They produced giant, tasty cucumbers that we then transformed into sweet pickles. With a ribbon around the jar, they became teacher Christmas gifts. Tomatoes, I’ve found, boil down to one or two varieties—Better Boys for thick slices of screaming acidic red tomato sandwiches and Cherokee Purples (an heirloom) for their beautiful color and to mix in watermelon and tomato salads.
But, as I said, last year—2019—it just felt too much like work and I let the weeds have it.
When the virus turned our world sideways back in March, I turned back to my abandoned garden and began prepping and planting between work phone calls now conducted in my shorts and with dirt under my nails. The friendly faces at Hutto’s and rows of infant tomato plants defied the apocalyptic predictions and jarring news videos of the pandemic. A good gardening store is all about hope. I knew we’d make it through this mess as I began dropping plants in rows.
They say the outdoors and working the soil has a measurable biological impact on your mood. It certainly does for me. And whereas it was once incidental, my out-of-doors experiences are now intentional. This experiential connection to the earth, whatever that is, is foundational to well-being. I can’t resist bragging on Facebook about my tomato crop with pretty pictures of my overflowing basket. And, it’s fun to hear praise and thanks as we give away tomatoes to friends, coworkers, and neighbors. But frankly, it really is too much work for social media bragging rights. Gardening is about the personal fulfillment—the peace—I receive tilling the soil, weeding on my knees, or pinching the suckers (extra plant stems) with my fingers as the aroma of tomato vines fills my lungs. COVID-19 reminded me of that.
Gardening, kayaking, mountain biking, trail running, backpacking—they all energize me in the same way. Outside. Earth. Connection. I was thinking the other day about the primitive church services of so many Boy Scout campouts—led by tired, dirty Scouts at the end of the weekend. A few have been among the more moving I’ve attended. I say that with full appreciation for church professionals like Rob or my mother, an organist, both of whom spend countless hours practicing and preparing for services. The sermon, the music, and the art of a church are irreplaceable, meaningful tools of our worship. But we grow so accustomed to them.
The scouting campout church services are impactful for different reasons. Less for the words and more for the peace they instill, or the vistas that serve as the backdrop or the quiet breeze that blows at just the right moment. The community, the unity, the collective effort to surrender to God—no matter how brief or (as is often the case with Boy Scouts) imperfect—complete a connection that is simultaneously raw, real, and Holy.
The absence of gardening for a year enriched and renewed my appreciation for the dirt in my backyard. Likewise, the absence of worship for a few months this year renewed my appreciation for our church community. And our brief, socially distant congregation reunions on the front lawn are all the more fulfilling because of it.
