A garden's reminder that growth begins underground

When we first moved to the farm, I had an overwhelming need to grow something.

The house wasn’t unpacked. The main garden wasn’t ready. There were boxes to sort through, projects waiting to be started, and more ideas than daylight.

But I needed my hands in the dirt, so I filled a seed tray with pie pumpkin seeds. Maybe it was my way of reminding myself that even in the middle of transition, life could still begin.

The little seedlings quickly outgrew their tiny cells. A few found homes in containers, but most stayed together while I worked to prepare the gardens.

Vacation was approaching, and I knew they couldn’t stay there much longer. Since the main garden wasn’t ready, I tucked them into a few recently cleaned raised beds with every intention of moving them later.

While they were growing, I became very acquainted with pigweed. If you’ve never battled it, let me introduce you. Pigweed is persistent, grows faster than almost anything you intentionally plant, and, as I quickly discovered, deer absolutely love it. Unfortunately, if the pigweed brings the deer, they’ll happily stick around for the pumpkins too.

Now, deer don’t politely nibble a pumpkin and wander off. They stomp on it until it splits open, then it seems they invite a dozen of their closest friends to enjoy the feast. Apparently, word travels fast in the deer community.

I’ve already accepted that I’ll probably share part of my harvest with the local wildlife. That’s part of gardening in the country. Still, I’m hoping they’ll leave me one or two pie pumpkins.

Every fall I roast the pumpkin, puree it, and freeze it in portions. Then, on a cold February afternoon, when the garden is asleep and summer feels like a distant memory, I can bake a pumpkin pie from pumpkins I grew months before. There is something magical about tasting the warmth of summer in the middle of winter.

When we returned from vacation, I couldn’t believe how much those pumpkins had grown. Their leaves were big and healthy, and they looked perfectly content right where they were. By then, the main garden was finally ready with rich soil, plenty of room, and everything they needed to thrive.

So, I carefully transplanted them.

Within hours, the leaves went limp. I expected that. A little drooping is part of transplant shock, and I knew they would need time to adjust.

What I didn’t expect was for the leaves to turn black.

Every morning I carried water to those little plants. Day after day, more leaves withered until all that remained was a thick, healthy stem surrounded by what looked like failure.

I knew about transplant shock. What I hadn’t fully appreciated was what the plant was actually doing.

When a plant is moved, it often lets go of what it can no longer support. Instead of spending energy on the leaves everyone can see, it redirects that energy below the surface, establishing roots in unfamiliar soil. For a season, it doesn’t look like it’s growing at all. In fact, it can look like it’s dying.

As I looked at those sturdy green stems surrounded by black, lifeless leaves, I realized the most important work was happening where I couldn’t see it.

A few weeks later, tiny green leaves began to emerge. Then little tendrils stretched into the air, searching for something to hold onto. Looking at them today, you would never know how close I thought they were to failing.

I wonder how often we mistake healthy change for failure.

A newly married couple discovers that building a life together isn’t as effortless as the wedding day promised.

New parents wonder if they’ll ever feel like themselves again.

Someone recovering from surgery feels weaker before they feel stronger.

A family moves to a new town where nothing feels familiar.

A young adult leaves for college or begins a first career.

Even changes we choose can leave us wondering if we’re moving backward instead of forward.

Sometimes what looks like decline is simply growth redirecting its energy beneath the surface.

Maybe that’s why I love inside jokes so much. They’re never funny because of the words themselves. They’re funny because of everything beneath them.

A glance across the room or one random phrase can send two people into laughter while everyone else wonders what they missed.

Those moments are built through shared experiences, ordinary Tuesdays, hard seasons, victories, disappointments, and years of simply showing up for one another. The joke is only the visible part of something much deeper.

Relationships are like that. So is trust. So is resilience. So is faith. They all grow beneath the surface. We rarely notice them developing from one day to the next. Then, one day, an inside joke, a familiar story, or a quiet act of kindness reminds us that something strong has been taking root all along.

We spend so much of life measuring what we can see. Bigger plants. Brighter blooms. Promotions. Milestones. Quick results.

But gardens have a way of teaching us that some of the most important seasons don’t look impressive from above. Healing often happens out of sight. Character is formed quietly. Relationships deepen one ordinary day at a time.

If this season has left you feeling a little wilted, don’t be too quick to believe you’re failing. The most important work may be happening where you can’t yet see it.

One day the new leaves will appear. They won’t be the beginning of your growth. They’ll simply be the first evidence that, all along, something beautiful was happening beneath the surface.