“This is the most fantastical day of my life!” exclaimed a young kindergartener on our first day of class. Tiny millipedes crawled across his fingertips as his classmates gathered around, astonished by the abundance of insects in our garden. Wide eyes took in the sun-scorched beds from the previous year—not with discouragement, but with fresh and eager anticipation.

So it is with our gardens. They move through seasons and rhythms of abundance, growth, death, preparation, and renewal. Each year we observe the cycle, but we often forget the weeks and months spent preparing the soil, tending the seeds, pulling the weeds, and waiting for the harvest. As we spend our Tuesdays and Thursdays patiently working in these spaces as a community, we slowly learn the patience required not only for gardening, but for life itself.

Our Creator knows the rhythm of life well. Fall arrives with its beautiful colors, rooted in necessary death. Seeds are scattered for the next spring, falling from summer’s fading glory. Winter’s cold seals the earth—rest for creation, but also preparation for what is to come. Then, with eager hearts, we welcome the warmth of spring and the first signs of new life.

As Houston gardeners, though, we also know the death that comes in summer—the blazing days when even steady watering seems to make little difference. And yet, when we return to campus after a rainy summer, we are met with both the overgrowth and the loss of last year’s hard work. Gardening, more than almost anything, reminds me of the seasons God gives us. With dirt-stained hands, I remember years of barrenness as well as years of abundance. I’ve lived through seasons of quiet and death, when unseen work beneath the surface was preparing me for what God had planned.

Now, I get to share this anticipation with 28 young minds as we prepare the soil for our year together. We walk this journey side by side—hands dirty, insects crawling everywhere, joy bubbling over as we discover the goodness of God’s provision. And yet, I know that within each little heart, a journey is already unfolding. Some children live in summers of pure joy, while others carry winters of deep sorrow. The privilege of holding their stories while we tend to our pumpkins is not lost on me. It reflects the way our Father holds each of our stories—patiently, tenderly, and with care.