A reflection on patience, tending, and the miracle of growth
What on earth, you might be wondering? Why such a title—asparagus and birth?
Let me take you back a few years. In the midst of the pandemic, my family and I did something wild and wonderful: we moved to a home with land—five acres of space to breathe, dream, and root down. It was something we imagined doing much later in life, but pandemics, as we all learned, tend to awaken new perspectives and bold decisions.
One of the first things I planted in our new garden was asparagus. Not because it was easy or offered instant gratification, but because it whispered to my soul about patience, trust, and the unseen growth happening beneath the soil. I knew asparagus would ask me to wait—years, in fact. It felt like a quiet agreement between the earth and me: tend to me, trust me, and your care will be rewarded in time.
For four years, we watered, weeded, and waited. In the third year, those tempting stalks pushed up through the earth, crisp and green, only to be left alone once more. As any gardener will tell you, letting them be is the hardest part. But the soil knows, the seasons know. The deep rooting must come first.
This year—finally—came the harvest. And oh, what a harvest it has been! The crunch of that first fresh stalk, snapped right from the ground, was pure magic. Juicy, sweet, and full of life. Most of the time, they don’t even make it back to the house. My children love them too, snacking straight from the garden as if they’re nature’s candy.
Waiting for the asparagus reminds me so much of pregnancy. And no, thank goodness, pregnancy doesn’t last four years (can I get an amen?). But still, it too is a journey of patience, tending, and deep-rooted transformation.
As a parent-to-be, you nourish yourself in body and mind—watering the roots, so to speak. You breathe more intentionally, you move with awareness, you honor the changes unfolding. Like the asparagus patch, you don’t always see the fruits of your efforts in the early stages—but growth is happening nonetheless.
And then, as the final weeks approach, there’s that familiar ache: “I’m so ready to meet this baby.” That longing. That breath-held trust that body and baby will move in their own rhythm toward the most sacred unfolding—birth.
And when the moment comes… when you meet your baby for the first time, the harvest is beyond what words can hold. The culmination of love, effort, trust, and waiting—all there in your arms.
This spring, I’m savoring each crunchy, sweet bite of asparagus and feeling the echoes of that sacred waiting in my heart. I’m also sitting in the deep joy of being a mother to two incredible beings who continue to teach me about presence, patience, and love.
So here’s to asparagus. And here’s to birth. Both remind us that waiting is not passive. It’s an act of hope. Of trust. Of love.
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