Pumpkins, Tomatoes, and the Art of Adjusting

Last year, I planted two pumpkin plants. Two. That’s it. Somehow, those plants took it as their personal mission to make me the Pumpkin Queen of the neighborhood. By the end of October, I had more than thirty pumpkins. Thirty! I was giving them away like candy, decorating every surface in my house, and freezing so much pumpkin puree that I still have some left a year later.

So, naturally, I thought—this is easy! Pumpkins love me. This year I planted five. Five plants! I pictured a Pinterest-worthy harvest of orange globes dotting the yard, a veritable pumpkin patch. Instead, I got… drumroll, please… absolutely nothing. Nada. The plants flowered, teased me with promise, and then were viciously attacked by beetles. Apparently, I went from “Pumpkin Whisperer” to “Pumpkin Pariah” overnight.

But here’s where the garden keeps me humble: tomatoes.

Last year, I planted two tomato plants. I thought I’d get juicy slicers for sandwiches, maybe some cherry tomatoes for salads. Except… I forgot about Luna. Our beloved black lab has a taste for green tomatoes. And if you’ve ever seen a dog get excited about a round, squishy object, you know what happens. She thought the tomato plants were basically her personal ball dispenser. Needless to say, the humans in the house hardly ate any tomatoes last year.

This year? I planted four tomato plants, braced myself for Luna’s raids, and figured I’d get a handful at best. Instead, I’m drowning in tomatoes. Buckets of them. Yellow and red heirlooms, and Roma’s. So many that I actually turned to my spouse the other day and said, “You know what? I don’t even mind if Luna grabs a few. We have plenty to share.” It’s a good thing I planted plenty of basil, onions, eggplant, and zucchini and that my family likes my tomato sauce!

Various knitted pumpkins of different Fall hues.

And abundance doesn’t just come from the soil. Before I left on renewal leave, one of my congregation members—who also happens to be one of the Christmas Bazaar coordinators this year—gave me a whole bunch of autumn-colored yarn. She knew I knit and wanted me to have yarn on hand, just in case over the course of the six weeks I wanted to make something. The thing is, I had already purchased some yarn with a plan in mind, since my pumpkins in the yard hadn’t gotten very far. So now, while my garden produced zero pumpkins, I have a growing pumpkin patch of knitted pumpkins. My yard may look bare, but my living room looks like fall exploded in soft yarny goodness.

And isn’t that just life? Sometimes we plant and nurture something with all the best intentions, and it comes to nothing—beetles, circumstances, or just plain mystery get in the way. Other times, we find ourselves in a season of wild abundance, more than we could ever use or imagine.

Life in the church feels like that too. Some years, ministries flourish. People show up. Programs thrive. Other years, we try the same thing and it fizzles. But here’s the good news: God is present in both. In the lean seasons, we learn resilience, patience, and creativity (and maybe how to make peace with a freezer full of ... whatever). In the abundant seasons, we learn to share generously, to laugh at the overflow, and to remember that joy grows best when it’s given away.

So whether you’re in a season of tomatoes-with-more-than-you-can-handle, or even a pile of knitted pumpkins that make your living room look like a craft fair, take heart. Abundance has many forms. And sometimes, it even comes with a dog happily munching a green tomato, reminding us that the harvest isn’t just for us alone.