Page 64 of In a Word, Yes

Silas is in the know, even if he doesn’t share my definition of “good stuff.”

He scrunches his forehead. Frowns. At least I think he’s frowning. It’s hard to distinguish on a guy who wears a permanent pout. “Nah. Just the usual junk. But you’re welcome to take a gander.”

How anyone could overlook the glorious hidden potential in the far reaches of Homer’s garden center is beyond me. Already the dopamine’s kicking in. Forget the batteries. I’m on mission. I could also use a bag of potting soil.

Oh, and one of these cute fall-themed doormats.

The more I add, the more my shopping cart protests. It squeaks as I shove it along outside, Silas trailing after me.

Here’s a secret unbeknownst to the greater population of Charity Falls: Should you ever venture beyond the displays of wheelbarrows and landscape trees, past the huge stacks of mulch, and then make a right, you’ll find yourself standing before a dumpster. Here is where employees toss the less-than-desirables. Scraggly looking bedding flowers that still contain, if you’re willing to see it, potential for thriving.

And here’s where I come in.

“What do you want with all that trashy stuff anyhow?” Silas says in his mopey way.

Trashy?Let’s consider the definition. There are certainly trashy novels, trashy movies, and trashy attire. What I do here is rescue living, breathing things struggling for a foothold in a harsh world.

I am a salvager of botanical castoffs. Not exactly flashy superhero stuff. But still.

“Well, have at it,” Silas says, leaving me to my madness.

The likelihood of finding good pickings this time of year is low. And yet a little bit of digging turns up the holy grail—perennials! A couple of half-gallon bloomed-out Shasta daisies and a somewhat crusted-over salvia. These should recover nicely. Digging around in the bin some more, a crushed six-pack of marigolds surfaces. Four of the six show promise.

It would be fair to ask what a woman with a second-story apartment and little room for flowerpots does with all this.

Aside from a quiet old man named Edsel, I am the (unofficial, uncompensated, and thankfully very much unnoticed) garden-keeper of Sun Country Apartments. Pockets of time spent brightening and weeding the strip of soil around our parking lot are moments of quiet joy. Any time my fingers are buried in cool soil, I get lost in it.

This is when I’m most aware I’m not alone. Doing nothing toearn approval. Yet feeling as if God likes simply hanging out with me while I’m doing the things that make me happy.

Edsel gets me too.

After all, it’s one thing to grow a singular plant in a pot, quite another to sow new life directly into solid ground, where roots ramble and intertwine with others. One is autonomous. Portable. The other, a living, breathing neighborhood.

In Eden, God cultivated agarden. A vibrant tapestry where resources are shared and every plant contributes something beautiful and necessary. Something otherwise lacking. A metaphor that isn’t lost on me.

For too long I’ve fought to remain a silo.

“Lucy?”

At the soft voice over my shoulder, I turn to find Jen Moncado standing close. I feel my face flush. Mind you, there’s no shame in being a flower savior. Even so, what are the chances Jen Number Two saw me rummaging through the dumpster?

I rush our greeting.

Jen lingers. “It’s actually kind of funny I ran into you,” she says, pushing her sunglasses up on her head.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was hoping to talk to you about something. I don’t mean right now—I mean, I’m sure you have things to do. But maybe sometime ... soon?”

I open my mouth to speak, but my brain is no help.

“Honestly, Lucy,” she says, laying a hand over her heart, “I’m not sure the best way to go about this, or even how to say it. It’s, well, it’s about my youngest, Liam. He just started pre-K—”

“Wow, already?” Furtively I reach down and reposition the doormat to conceal the mangled marigolds.

She beams. “Right? I know. It flies by. Anyway, it’s just ... well, sometimes Liam reminds me a little of your son.”

“Of my Chase?”