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There’s something humbling about planting a garden.
You turn the soil, place something small into the ground, and then … you wait.
You don’t control the rain.
You don’t rush the sun.
You simply trust that what you’ve placed there, if tended to with care, will grow in its own time.
Family life is not all that different.
My wife, Connie, has always loved planting a garden in the spring. There’s a quiet joy in the way she approaches it — patient, hopeful, attentive. She’ll kneel down, press something small into the soil, and then check on it each day as if she’s waiting for a miracle.
And in a way, she is.
She still gets a little thrill when those first green shoots push through the dirt. It never seems to get old for her — that moment when something so small, so humble, begins to grow into something living and strong.
It’s a simple thing.
But it isn’t small.
Watching her, I’m reminded that growth has always been like this. Quiet. Gradual. Often invisible until suddenly it isn’t.
It takes me back to growing up in western Colorado.
Spring didn’t just mean warmer weather — it meant fruit season was coming. And if you’ve never had a Colorado peach at the height of summer, you’ve missed something special. Sweet, juicy, the kind that runs down your arm if you’re not careful.
Those were the kinds of things you didn’t forget.
My mom would take us out to the farms — tomato fields, potato patches, orchards full of bright red cherries. We would pick until our hands were stained and our pockets were full.
And of course, we ate as we picked.
Especially the cherries.
Every year, without fail, my sister would eat far more than she should. And every year, she would end up paying for it later — spending a good amount of time in the bathroom regretting her enthusiasm.
You would think that might slow her down the next season.
It never did.
Some lessons, I suppose, are worth repeating. But looking back now, what I remember most isn’t just the fruit.
It’s the process. The waiting. The tending. The seasons.
None of those tomatoes appeared overnight. None of those peaches rushed their way onto the branch. None of those cherry trees hurried to produce.
Growth took time.
And someone, long before we ever showed up to enjoy it, had planted, watered, cared, and trusted.
That’s the part we often forget. We enjoy the harvest. We rarely think about the hands that prepared the soil.
Family life works the same way.
The values we carry, the habits we form, the way we treat people, the way we love — these things don’t just appear. They are planted.
Sometimes through words. Sometimes through example. Sometimes through small, quiet moments that don’t seem important at the time.
A conversation at the table. A ride in the car. A lesson taught without announcement. A kindness witnessed.
We don’t always see the impact right away. In fact, most of the time, we don’t.
There are seasons in life where it feels like nothing is happening at all.
But beneath the surface, something is taking root.
Something is growing.
And often, we won’t be the ones to fully see what it becomes.
That can be hard.
We like results. We like evidence. We like to know that what we’re doing matters.
But life, like a garden, doesn’t always offer immediate proof.
It asks for patience. It asks for trust. It asks us to keep tending, even when the soil looks unchanged.
The older I get, the more I realize how much of life is about planting things we may never fully see.
A word of encouragement. A moment of forgiveness. A steady presence. A life lived with quiet integrity. These are seeds.
And like all seeds, they carry within them the possibility of something far greater than what we can see at the moment we plant them.
Spring reminds us of this.
Every year, without fail, the ground that once looked empty begins to stir again.
Small signs. New life. Fresh beginnings. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t force. It simply grows.
Maybe that’s the invitation this season offers us.
To keep planting. To keep tending. To trust that even the smallest acts of love and care are doing more than we realize.
Because in the end, most of what matters in life isn’t built in a moment.
It’s grown over time. Often quietly. Often unseen. But always, in its own way, faithfully.
Porch blessing
May you never underestimate the seeds you plant in the lives of those you love.
May you find joy in small beginnings and patience in the waiting.
May your words take root, your kindness grow deep, and your love bear fruit in ways you may never fully see.
And may this season remind you that even the smallest acts, given in love, are never wasted.
Blessings.
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Dr. Richard J. Stride is the CEO of Cascade Community Healthcare.
