I assured her many times.
She did not need to water her newly planted fruits today. Buckets of rainfall had provided a deserved respite from her arduous chore.
She had carried watering cans, carted hoses and sprinklers, and inspected her plantings every day for two weeks.
Having mini orchards to call her own had been a dream of hers for a decade, but our previous home in mid-atlantic suburbia, on less than a fifth of an acre, allowed no room for her vision. Our new home was placed on the front corner of 14 acres that lazily stretch uphill from a long, rich-soiled river front. Within only a day of arriving, she and I were turning over rich brown dirt, moving lush green sod, and planting her dreams.
We still had a barn full of moving boxes; dark, worn, antique floors to refinish; and uneven plaster to sand and paint in every room of our early-19th-century cape cod. But her dreams were taking root and being tended to. So, although the interior of our home told a chaotic story, we were settling in just fine.
“He waters the mountains from his upper chambers; the land is satisfied by the fruit of his work.” Psalm 104:13