Just spent three days dealing with social service agencies, caseworkers, and therapists, advocating for my younger son's needs. After three days, I badly needed to come up for air. I joke about it sometimes but it's true: I forget to breathe. I'll be speeding along a major highway, thinking about who I need to contact next, and realize I'm not breathing. It happens far too often.
I went out into the garden for a break. I started some new strawberry plants this year, Alpine Something Or Other, and delicious slightly tart little berries are appearing under the broad strawberry leaves. If I'm lucky, I can pop a few in my mouth before some mysterious intruder comes in for his share of the goodies.
More and more, my garden has become a place of prayer. Occasionally there are whole afternoons where my three busy teenagers are doing other things, and I have time to think and pray. While I'm tying up the beautifully abundant squash plants, trying to teach them to leave the less boisterous pepper and tomato plants alone, I can pray a rosary or take my time saying one of the psalms. And there, I can breathe deeply. It's God's way of calling us back into remembrance of Him, through His creation.
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