The Unlikely Messenger: A Slice of Life with Debra Brown
Lately, I’d been feeling the distance.
Twelve is a funny age—too old for dolls, too cool for spontaneous hugs, and too busy for long talks with your mom. Our personal connection had felt limited—crowded out by school, friends, and headphones. I missed her. I missed us.
So when Saturday rolled around, I asked Meredith to help me plant marigolds—tough little flowers that could handle the summer heat. Not because she loved gardening (she didn’t), but because I needed face time without computer screens or after-school activity schedules. I needed to water something between us.
We started early to avoid the sweltering afternoon heat. The warm morning smelled like sunscreen, fresh-mowed grass, and summer in full bloom. Around the yard, pockets of red, white, and purple dotted the flower beds. We got to work with gloves in hand and flats of flowers. Meredith sighed when I handed her a trowel.
We chose sunny spots so the plants could flourish.
“We loosen the soil first, then add compost,” I told her. “This helps things grow stronger.”
“Is this a teaching moment?” she asked, squinting into the sun before putting on her sunglasses.
“Maybe,” I answered. “One day, when you’re older, you may want to have pretty plants in your yard, and you’ll know what to do.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“In any case, we need to plant the marigolds the right way to give them the best chance for survival.” I paused. “I’d hate to do the work and have them die.”
“Why can’t we put them in big planters? We’d still have that pop of yellow you want,” she said with a snark.
I smiled.
“We could. But planting the flowers in the ground ourselves helps them grow stronger—and so do we.”
She gave me a look—the kind only a preteen could master.
So, I picked up two hoes and handed one to her. We started at opposing ends and met in the middle.
I grabbed a small bag of compost, and Meredith picked up another. We worked it into the churned-up soil.
“Great job,” I said.
“Thanks.” She pulled her dirty t-shirt up and wiped her red face, leaving behind smears of dirt on her skin.
As she guzzled from her water bottle, I showed her how Momma had taught me to tease out the roots if they were bound tightly in the container. Dusty dirt crumbs rained down my arms as I demonstrated.
“These are stinky,” Meredith groaned, wrinkling her nose.
“Mosquitos don’t like them either.”
She nodded and watched as I placed a marigold in the hole, backfilled it with soil, tamped it down to remove air pockets, and drenched the roots with the hose.
Meredith mimicked my movements with her plant.
I felt the weight of the task ahead—planting marigolds in the scorching heat and not a breath of wind offering relief. I had to wonder, “Would my plan backfire? Would today feel like punishment and create more distance between us?”
The morning crawled on. My thighs burned, and my lower back ached. Sweat trickled between my eyes as the heat wrapped us in a humidity-soaked blanket.
Still, she dug—half-hearted at first—placing the marigolds into the dry soil beside me.
But something shifted as the sun warmed our backs, and we made our way down the row. Her shoulders relaxed. She stopped asking how much longer it would take. I even saw her fingers brush the dirt from the leaves and smooth the soil around the base of a bloom.
It dawned on me: something miraculous happens when we tend to things with our hands, taking our time, and handling them with care.
The moment got me thinking.
We’re all planting something—every day. And we’re watering something, too.
Maybe it’s a habit, a belief, a relationship, or a quiet hope. Perhaps it’s a fear or a wound that needs to be pulled up by the roots and tossed.
Whatever we give our time, our thoughts, and our energy to—that’s what grows.
The psalmist paints a beautiful picture of a life that flourishes in Psalm 1:3:
“He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. Whatever he does prospers.”
But what if we’re planted somewhere dry? What if we’ve been watering things that drain us—pulling us away from peace instead of toward it?
That’s the beauty of grace: we can always reroute the water. We can feed our faith instead of our fear, nurture peace instead of anxiety, stop pouring energy into what drains us, and invest in what gives us joy.
Meredith didn’t fall in love with gardening that day. But she was present with me.
When we stepped back to see the row of marigolds, tucked in with fresh pine straw, standing tall—bright yellow, bold, and cheerful—she smiled.
Growth doesn’t always begin with excitement.
Sometimes, it starts with a reluctant yes—and a little bit of water.
Debra Brown’s motto is “Be the Spark.” She has a passion for family, her 3 cats, flowers, pretty food, and health & wellness. Debra is an author, UGA honors graduate/The Citadel MBA.