I am first and foremost an introvert, even though God has called me to a line of work that necessitates my energetic interaction with middle school students for seven hours a day.  So my early morning walks through my backyard garden, just as the dim glow of virgin gold on the eastern horizon begins to swallow the night, started as simply a retreat into solitude before the bustling activity of my school day began.  I also enjoy surveying my little plot of land: pruning a wayward tomato vine here, pulling off a sated snail there, gently watering a fragile seedling, or simply admiring the fleeting beauty of the microscopic dew drops suspended on the fuzzy foliage of sleeping vegetation.

Then one day I realized that these walks were changing me, and not just because they provided my introvert self with a few coveted moments of silence and solitude.

I inspect each of the six of my young tomato plants on these morning walks, crouching down to really have a look at them.  This time of year, just starting to outgrow his seedling stature, one of these plants measures a mere one foot tall with a stem less than half an inch in diameter.  Delicate but well-rooted, he stands upright–as if on his tiptoes–reaching toward the location of the early afternoon sun, anticipating its not-yet-begun daily journey in a shallow arc across the spring sky.

And each morning there is a bit of excitement and what I can only describe as reassuring joy when I see that little plant still standing after a long, dark night–I imagine that this is how I felt as a very young child, when I discovered that my favorite book ended the same way the second and third time through.  And I think to myself, “Like this he stood all through the night, expectant and hopeful of the next day’s sunlight, waiting patiently and without movement.  Like this he stood all through the night.”

There is just something about that tomato plant: his frailty, his complete dependence on the sun for life, and the fact that he stands in anticipation with a hope that carries him through the night–every night–looking toward that spot in the sky where the sun will shine most intensely upon his face . . . and he does all of this, not because he thinks to do so, but because he is created to do so.  He must behave this way–he knows of no other way to be.

There is just something about that tomato plant that calls to my soul.  He whispers to me, “Stand with me.”  And so I do–for a moment–until I see another snail.