P.S. - the cusp of ripeness

Visions of plump cherry tomatoes have danced in my head since mid-May, when we planted a healthy-looking Supersweet 100 seedling. The infant plant grew gangly, and to date has yielded a miserly handful of its crimson bounty, just enough to whet my desire. And now, hours before our dawn departure to the far west, the Supersweet has passed its awkward puberty and is dripping with bulging bright green tomatoes, ready to burst into scarlet redness any moment, probably the instant our tailights fade from view.

What compels me to leave my garden just at the cusp of ripeness? I don't remember strapping wheels to my shoes in a fit of wanderlust, and I happily by-passed any stage of teenage angst that involved swearing to insert a distance of two oceans between yourself and your parents as soon as the ripe adulthood of 18 arrived.

Nonetheless, the fact remains that over the past 4 years, the longest time I've spent in one location has been 4 months, and that was in far-away Honduras. I place most of the blame on being an out-of-town college student, we're as transitory as migratory birds. But I also pinpoint as culpable the seismic shift from dating to unattached that took place about a year ago, involving me and one high school sweetheart. Such an earthquake couldn't help but embitter many joyful memories at home. Looking back, I see that my instant reaction to a broken heart to be the same as that expected in the presence of a charging ox: flee, or be mangled beyond recognition. And so I fled - to Costa Rica, to Honduras, to college, all basically ex-boyfriend-memory-free.

Of course, the ox eventually loses interest and the broken-hearted must pause, panting, and forgive as courageously as possible. This I did as well, and praise God, forgiveness has turned out to be the best balm for a bruised heart - in a strange way, for it is disguised as a brillo pad that scours the stubborn vestiges of bitterness.

My my, forgive such a rabbit trail, this is quite beside the point, which is that the tomatoes are ripe and I am leaving. But hallelujah, this transplant from home to elsewhere feels so different; it is moving forward in hoping, not away in fear.

I wonder now at two options: a) this constant wandering is a test of my ability to rest in God in lieu of a consistent dwelling-place, or b) it is rather a mere taste of much more of the same to come. Only time will tell. If someday I could grow tomatoes and still be there when they fall ripe into my eager hands, I will rejoice at such a gift. But if not, there will always be neighbors who (I'm sure) eye the luscious Supersweet as much as I do.