My garden has always been a secure spot for me. After my spouse died, it turned into more than just a hobby; it became a place to heal. When the world was too quiet, putting my hands into the ground, sowing seeds, and watching life grow anew made me feel like I had a purpose. It’s where I go to clear my head and feel close to the ground and, in many ways, to him.
My daughter Sarah gave me the empty lot adjacent to her house, which made the modest area in my backyard increase. She understood how much I loved to grow things, and giving me that space felt like a gift of love. I really cared about it. Every weekend and most early mornings, you could find me sowing rows of lettuce, squash, peppers, tomatoes, and herbs outside. My grandkids helped me make raised beds out of wood. They loved digging and playing in the watering can. We painted signs with the names of the plants and even put in a small bench where we could relax and look at what we had done.
It was just fine for a time.
But as time went on, I began to notice little things that didn’t seem right. The next day, I was going to pick a ripe tomato, but it was gone. A week later, a row of cucumbers looked like they had been hacked down. I first felt that animals, like squirrels, were to blame. I also thought that one of my grandsons might have gotten too excited and taken something without notifying me. It was easier to believe that than to think that someone would remove something so important and personal.
Then, one day, everything changed. I took my basket into the garden to fill it with the first big crop of the year. But the vines were bare. All of the ripe peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, and squash are gone. Cleaned out. Not a single one was left behind.
I stood there in silence, feeling a mix of emotions: shock, bewilderment, sadness, and yes, rage. It wasn’t just about the veggies. It was about the effort, the memories, and the healing I had done in that soil. It seemed like a crime, like someone had broken into my sacred space and taken something from me.
Sarah was just as angry as I was. We spoke about every possible cause, but deep down, we both suspected that someone had been stealing stuff from the garden. That’s why we decided to find out for sure. Sarah set a little camera on her back porch that turns on when it sees movement. It was in the perfect spot to see anyone who came into the lot at odd hours.
The next day, we watched the video again. And there she was, right in front of me.
Wilma, the woman who lived two doors down. She was slowly walking around the garden with a big reusable bag over her shoulder, picking the ripest vegetables and putting them in the bag. She didn’t look like she was in a rush or embarrassed. She seemed like she was at ease. She took a methodical approach to the problem. Like someone who had done this before.
I was shocked. We had never been close, but we had always been nice to each other when we saw each other. She didn’t say much, kept to herself, and wasn’t often seen outside. I never would have imagined she was guilty.
I wanted to approach her right away, ask her why she did it, and call her out. But something inside me halted. Maybe it was because I was older. The garden itself may have taught me how to be patient, grow, and be kind. I didn’t want this to turn into a fight. I didn’t want anger to bloom in the same place where I had tried to achieve peace.
I decide to do things differently.
That afternoon, I walked over to Wilma’s door with a basket full of fresh fruits and veggies that I had stored inside the house. They were the last of my previous harvests. I knocked, and when she opened the door, I smiled and gave her the basket.
I said, “I thought I’d bring it right to you since you like my garden so much.”
She opened her eyes wider. Her face got quite crimson. She stared at the basket, then at me, and then back at the basket. She didn’t say anything when she closed the door.
That could have been the end of it: a public shame, a quiet exit, and no more talking. But that didn’t seem right to me. She had a cause for what she did. People don’t take from their neighbors just because they can. Something must be going on.
I started to talk about it with other individuals in the region in a nice way. I didn’t say she was guilty. I didn’t even speak her name at first. I just remarked that someone close might be having a hard time and that we should check in on them. As devoted people do, the community came together immediately. People in the area started dropping food at Wilma’s door, bringing her extra groceries, and even bringing her baked goods with nice notes. No judgment. Just little acts of compassion.
A few days later, Wilma knocked on my door. She looked different: exhausted, weak, and sorrowful. She told me she was sorry. She said that her husband had lost his job and that things were worse than she had expected they would be. She didn’t know how to ask for help. Taking from my garden was the last thing I wanted to do.
I paid attentive. After that, I asked her and her husband if they would help me plant the things I had lost again. At first, she wasn’t sure. But then she agreed. They came by once a week to help with things like studying, watering, planting seedlings, and pulling weeds. I showed them how to make compost, stake beans, and care for tomatoes. We talked some more. We laughed sometimes. It was a surprise that we became friends.
At the end of the summer, Wilma had made a small garden in her backyard. She was happy to show me the first cherry tomatoes that grew on her vines. She said it was the first time in years that she felt like she could do something. Of growth.
In the end, it wasn’t just about the stolen vegetables. It was about how we react to harm and whether we judge or build others up. No one would have blamed me if I had gotten upset. But I’m glad I chose grace. I’m glad I let the garden and its quiet wisdom guide me.
Yes, justice was served. But the most important thing was that kindness grew. And, as always, peace came back, one tomato at a time.