If My Hostas Could Talk

I knew when I planted them that it wouldn’t be ideal, but I did it anyway.

Six years ago, my sister gave me a bunch of Hosta plants. The long strip of crushed rock running along the east side of our fence screamed for something green and growing. Like most people, I knew Hostas love shade and that the strip would be too sunny for them. But since the plants cost me nothing, I plunged ahead.

Planting them turned out to be a crazy enough project to warrant a blog post of its own back in 2014. (Not, however, a story that made the cut for my book.) The job involved moving rock, chiseling holes through hard-packed gravel, filling them with compost, laying landscaping fabric on a windy day, and other exhausting shenanigans for which I have no energy six years later.

The Hostas have not exactly thrived. Oh, they’re gorgeous through June and partway into July. But by mid-summer, they usually look as appealing as an overflowing ashtray. Brown and burnt leaves replace lush and green ones. They are basically cooked.

It’s not the Hostas’ fault. Somebody planted them in a place where they were never intended to thrive.

Full disclosure. Not my hosta.

I pondered this one June day as I pulled weeds out from between them. They still looked beautiful and brimming with potential. They desperately needed dividing and still do, but any suitable spots I have for them would involve a repeat of the digging-holes-through-rock scenario. I can’t face it. So I leave them, knowing they’re going to do their best anyway.

I thought about how you and I were designed for a better place, too. The garden in which God placed his first people was beautiful beyond our imagination and perfectly good. Every physical, emotional, and relational need was met. Then our enemy moved in and nothing has been the same since.

We live in a broken world and deep inside, every one of us knows this is not where we truly belong. It’s why we demand justice and scream with indignation when confronted with evil, sickness, and death. Our souls long for a better place to grow to our full potential, where we can bless others with life and beauty.

But we remain stuck here. For now.

The wonder of my Hostas is that they have survived at all. They continue to grow, to reproduce, and to grace my yard with beauty despite their less than ideal conditions. They give what they can, when they can. I like to think they are stronger because they’ve had to survive the hot sun. Yes, they could do even better elsewhere and perhaps someday I will move them and give them that opportunity. Until then, they bloom where they are planted.

You and I can learn a lot from the humble Hosta plant. Let’s not wait for ideal circumstances. One day your creator will move you to a place of perfection, but until then…bloom!

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit." (Jeremiah 17:7-8)

What Happened to Spring?

Is it just me, or did we skip an entire season? Seems we went straight from winter to summer, and now the blossoming trees and shrubs are scrambling into overdrive, trying to catch up with the calendar. Please don’t hear this as complaining; I’m thrilled the weather finally warmed after most of us had lost hope. But it’s easier on the constitution when we’re phased in with a few gentle spring breezes instead of jumping from zero to thirty in sixty seconds. 

Too bad the mosquitoes didn’t miss any clues.

Doing everything the hard way

If there’s a stupider way to do a yard project, I tend to find it. I wanted to turn a 55-foot strip of crushed rock along our side fence into a lovely row of something—something with a little more life than all that stone and the weeds that manage to poke through it. Since my sister had hosta plants to share, I figured they’d do nicely. This meant raking as much of the crushed rock onto the driveway as I could manage, then jumping on a shovel like a jackhammer to dig holes through the remaining six inches of gravel. Rattled a few teeth loose, I think.

When I had all 14 holes dug and was ready to haul soil from our city’s composting yard, hubby was gone with both his truck and his muscles. So I made three trips to the composting yard in my car, using several two-gallon buckets because that’s all the weight my wimpiness could manage.

The next afternoon, I set out to lay landscaping fabric along this 55-foot strip. On the windiest day of the year. But if I waited for calmer weather the poor little hostas, already uprooted from their former bed, would surely die. Now I understand the pressure heart transplant surgeons are under.

Working with landscaping fabric in the wind reminded me of trying to change a diaper on a toddler fresh from his nap and raring to go. Every time I’d place part of it down, another part would billow up like it was ready to set sail. At one point, holding on tight, I went parasailing down the street and ended up two blocks over. 

By the time my hostas were planted and the fabric covered with cedar mulch, I was too cranky to speak nicely to them. Folks tell me all I have to do now is water them. We’ll see.

In praise of clotheslines

Now that summer’s here, I’m enjoying the benefits of a clothesline after eleven years without one. While the kids were growing, two clotheslines graced our country yard—an umbrella type and a pulley type. We faithfully filled them both three times a week. It saved money on power and everything smelled wonderful. 

But our next move landed us in a trailer park where they forbade clotheslines (which I never could figure out) and the next move was into a rented house without one. So when we purchased our home last summer, I was delighted to discover an umbrella clothesline in the backyard. Using it makes me feel all pioneersy and wholesome. Mind you, I still run most of the clothes through a cold fluff cycle with a fabric softener sheet afterwards. Can’t have hubby walking around stiff-legged and chafing.

John Steinbeck wrote, “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?” 

I suppose he had a point. But I could handle summer weather all year ‘round and still find it pretty dang sweet. Couldn’t you?