I almost gave up on them.
Not because they died, but because they didn’t seem to be doing anything.
Day after day I walked past those grow bags, peeking into the soil, looking for evidence that my effort had mattered. I watered. I waited. I worried. Then I worried some more. Nothing. At least nothing I could see.
I remember standing over those bags convinced I had failed them. The gardening experts had plenty to say. Use seed potatoes. Use certified potatoes. Use organic potatoes. Use the right potatoes. Meanwhile, I was standing in the grocery store buying potatoes the same way I’ve bought them all my life—to cook, to eat, to turn into fried potatoes on a Saturday morning. I didn’t know their pedigree. I didn’t know their variety. I didn’t know whether they had the proper credentials for success.
I just planted what I had.
Then one morning, after weeks of wondering, I looked a little harder and found a tiny green shoot. Just one. Not a harvest. Not a miracle. Just enough evidence to keep me from giving up.
Soon there was another shoot. Then another. Before long, the bags were overflowing with green vines spilling over the edges. The plants that once seemed dead now looked determined to take over the backyard. My husband and I laughed about it because I honestly don’t know what kind of potatoes I planted. I never paid attention to potato varieties. I bought them because they were on sale, brought them home, cooked them, and ate them. Yet there they were, growing anyway.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized this wasn’t really about potatoes.
We pray for miracles, but we often expect God to use certified methods. We look for the right people, the right circumstances, the right timing, the right credentials, and the right opportunities. Yet over and over again, God chooses ordinary things. A shepherd’s staff. A boy’s lunch. A widow’s oil. A handful of grocery-store potatoes.
The lesson wasn’t really about gardening. The lesson was about trust.
Sometimes God is growing something long before we see it. Sometimes what looks dormant is simply developing underground. Sometimes the miracle isn’t cancelled; it’s just hidden beneath the surface.
But the funny thing about potato gardening is that the story doesn’t end with all that beautiful green growth.
In fact, after the vines have stretched, the leaves have multiplied, and you’ve finally convinced yourself you’ve succeeded, the plants begin to die back.
The leaves yellow. The stems droop. The lush green growth that once made you so proud starts to fade. If you don’t know better, you’ll think you’ve lost everything. After all that waiting, all that watering, all that hoping, it can feel like the story is ending in disappointment.
But experienced gardeners know something different.
Of which I am not—at least not yet.
I’m still the woman who planted grocery-store potatoes without knowing what kind they were. I’m still the gardener who stood over those bags convinced I had failed. Yet even I am beginning to learn that the dying back isn’t the end of the story. It’s the signal that the harvest is near.
The plant is not giving up. It is finishing its assignment.
All season long, the energy that showed up above ground has been quietly producing something beneath the soil. When the visible growth begins to decline, it often means the hidden work is complete. The harvest was forming long before anyone could see it.
It reminds me of Galatians 6:9:
“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
The funny thing is that the harvest often begins forming long before we can see it. God is working beneath the surface while we are still looking for evidence above ground.
Isn’t that true in life sometimes?
We celebrate the seasons of visible growth. The opportunities, the promotions, the breakthroughs, the answered prayers we can point to and photograph. Yet there are other seasons when something appears to be fading, changing, or coming to an end. A role shifts. A season closes. A body grows tired. A prayer is answered differently than we expected.
What if every ending isn’t a failure?
What if some things have simply completed their work and are making room for a harvest we cannot yet see?
Sometimes what looks like dying is actually ripening.
Maybe that’s why I love these potato bags so much. They have been preaching a sermon all spring. First they taught me that dead and dormant are not the same thing. Soon they will teach me that decline and defeat are not the same thing either.
I planted what I had.
God grew what He wanted.
And somewhere beneath those leaves, where I cannot yet see, a harvest is forming.
Maybe that’s true in more places than my garden.
Love,
Chelle
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