Planting Sardines

My mother never raised houseplants.  She would often say there wasn’t a houseplant alive she couldn’t kill; she insisted that she had inherited a “black thumb” from somewhere in her ancestry.  Now, any random visit to my aunt or sister’s house would’ve caused you to raise your eyebrows at my mother’s claim.  Both ladies – aunt and sister – could keep any vegetation alive.  I began to wonder if my mother secretly simply hated the idea of being beholden to a watering can, but then I agreed to help her transplant daylilies.  

The job appeared easy enough: dig up the lilies from their current abode; break them into smaller plantings; dig new holes for homes; relocate the daylilies; cover with soil; water and fertilize. Voila!  Nothing to it, right?  Wrong.  Mom harbored different ideas.

My momma raised us all to read voraciously, and sometimes the more obscure the article or book the better, and she certainly didn’t raise us to do anything she herself didn’t practice (mostly).  So, to prepare herself to plant/transplant, Mom decided to do a bit of research.  She found an article that described the American Indian teaching the first Massachusetts settlers to plant corn in the New World.  Fascinating, apparently, but uhm, maybe not something necessarily applicable almost 400 years later.  Mom, however, was determined to apply her newfound knowledge to her front yard daylilies.   

As my parents and I labored away under the afternoon sun, me prying the daylilies from their current nests and my parents settling them into new ones under the dining room and kitchen windows, my mom declared a cessation to the replanting process.  

“Wait!  I need to find the sardines,” she said.

In confusion I looked up in from the grubbing hoe I was straining to wedge under a 20-year-old root system.  I was sure I had misheard, either that or was suffering an acute auditory hallucination.  My father’s face suggested he was in it with me.

“Sardines?  Did you say ‘sardines’?” I asked, gawking at Mom’s bent back as she dug through the plastic garden storage bin muttering, “I know they’re in here.”

Dad and I looked at each other then back at her and waited.  Momentarily, she righted herself clutching a tin of something, her face glowing in triumph. 

“Here they are.  Now, what we do is put a can of these in each hole.  Then, we put the plant in on top of the sardines, cover it all with soil, water, and fertilize.”  Holding the tin of tiny fish, she stared resolutely at us as if we would inherently understand the reasonability of this instruction, as if we buried cans of potted fish in the front yard daily.

I processed this announcement.  Then, I processed it again.  Yep; nope, never heard anything quite like that.  “Uh, Mom, I think you just said that we’re planting a can of sardines with each daylily,” my voice took on that gentle don’t-rile-the-bear tone one uses with lunatics and toddlers alike.

Mom gave me that look peculiar to all mothers, that Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re doing ____________.  “We are,” she stated.

I could hear the incredulity in my voice, “We’re planting 5 cans of sardines in your front yard?”

“No, we’re not planting 5 ‘cans’ of sardines.  We are, of course, going to open the cans and dump the fish into the hole then chop up the fish with the shovel and mix the fish in with soil before placing the lilies on top of them.”  

Uh, huh.  Like that made more sense.

I spoke slowly as if to a very small, very dim child.  “We’re going to dump five cans of fish into holes in your front yard underneath your dining room and living room windows?  Five cans of fish that will decay and rot? Five cans of fish that smell bad NOW?”

Mom nodded.  “Yes.”

I swallowed once, then twice.  “Can I just go on record as saying that this is a very bad idea?” 

Mom smiled beatifically.  “Yes, okay, but we are still going to do it.”

My father took off his ballcap and rubbed his head.  He raised his eyebrows slightly, replaced his cap and spoke.  “Honey, why?”

“Well, I recently read an article that explained that when the Pilgrims were learning to plant crops in the New World, the Indians taught them to bury a fish with each seed.”  Considering that enough commentary, Mom calmly held the tin out for my father to open. 

Suddenly, my mind jumped to an image of Stephen Hopkins and John Alden in full Thanksgiving pageant Pilgrim regalia standing with Squanto and others nodding skeptically as Squanto said, “Now, the fish that you caught out of the ocean, they’re no good to eat.  In fact, very bad for you. We have special fish that are okay for you, given to us by our ancestors.  We will share with you.  

“What you need to do is plant each fish in the ground like wheat or tomatoes; take care of them like any other crop, and in the Fall, you’ll have a big harvest of new fish.”

In my vision, Stephen and John looked at each then shrugged.  “Thanks, guys.  We never would’ve guessed we needed to do that,” John said.  Then the two Englishmen proceeded to drop whole fish into holes, covering them with soil, watering them daily, and patiently waiting in fervent expectation for a baby fish to sprout live from the ground.  Meanwhile back in the Wampanoag village, much mirth was enjoyed over the practical joke they’d played on the new guys.    

I cracked up.

My mother must’ve caught onto my imagining, because she narrowed her eyes at me, and stated drily, “I do know the fish won’t grow.”

As I scroll through the news stories fed to my phone by an algorithm far beyond my comprehension of math, despair reaches for me.  I dodge its poisonous tentacles, reminding myself that love – that hope and faith – are a choice.  My mind consumes the factual information relayed by this broken world, but the ultimate perception by which I will live and react and interact with others occurs via the Spirit.  

News clips of desperate people falling from the wings of USAF transport planes leaving Kabul, our elected leaders stumbling through explanations of the latest tragic debacle in a country where our men and women fought and died, unadultered hate and intolerance domestically, disease divisiveness, economic ravishment.  Close my eyes and breathe.  I do not understand, and I am… afraid.  

My heart screams a prayer. 

In the still silence I hear, Do you know who you are in Me?  Do you know who you are to Me?  When you do, fear will flee because you are fearfully and wonderfully made.  I love you beyond measure.  You are My temple; regardless of what becomes of the muscle and bone, your soul belongs to Me.  Your comprehension of ‘why’ beyond knowing that this is My plan matters not at all.  Go where I lead, and trust that what I have promised, I will fulfill.  From the mess, I will create beautyl – sort of like planting sardines to make a daylily grow.