I turn off the two-lane and cut across the corner of the front yard. I can tell the grass was mown probably yesterday. It has that clean look. It’s like a thick, green carpet I think to myself. There’s a lot to be proud of in a place that’s kept neat and trimmed.

The dew is thick this morning. The grass clippings are sticking to my tires as I make my way over to the garden. I got an invite from my friend, Bill, to come pick a mess of okra.

I answered my phone yesterday.

“Hey there Bill.”

“I didn’t disturb your nap, did I?”

Bill moonlights as a comedian.

“Naw. Just finishing up some picture frames in my shop.”

“I’ve got some okra ready to pick if you’re interested.”

Asking if I’m interested in okra is like asking me if I like ice cream. You might as well ask me if I like a warm fire on a cold night. Ask me if I’m interested in going fishing. You could ask if I want a bowl of peach cobbler or if I’d like to have some fresh okra, and the answer to both would be in the affirmative.

“What time?”

“That’s up to you. I won’t be there. Just help yourself.”

“You want me to pick it clean?”

“That’s fine. I picked a couple days ago. Sara said that I better not bring any more into this house. I’ll leave the bag I picked at the end of the row. You’re welcome to it.”

“I appreciate it. I’ll come early before it gets hot.”

I park along the fence and step out of the truck. I grab my 5 gallon bucket out of the floorboard in back. I reach in the toolbox and grab a pair of snips. Okra can be hard to snap by hand, and if you’re not careful, you can break the good stems with young okra on them. I don’t want to ruin the next picking.

I’m glad I have my muck boots on. My pant legs stuffed down inside. The wet grass is sticking to everything it touches.

I’m not a gardener these days. I grew up in a garden. My dad had a huge garden, and that’s no exaggeration. So as a young man freshly married, I thought it important to carry on the tradition. I had a good spot out behind our little house in Bartow County. I tilled and planted.

We put up over 300 ears of Silver Queen corn that year. I can’t remember how many quarts of purple hull peas, and Kentucky Wonder green beans. We gave away baskets full of Big Boy Tomatoes. And for several years we held to it and enjoyed the fruit of our labor. Cantaloupe. Squash. Butter Beans.

For the last 30 years, though, I’ve lived in the middle of the woods. I don’t have the space or the sunlight for a garden spot. And if I’m honest, I don’t know that I have the willpower. Working a garden takes a lot of focus and energy.

But this is why I appreciate the invite to pick okra. I understand the work behind it.

There came a time in Dad’s garden when, each year, he would put the word out to neighbors and friends that they could come pick all they wanted. I would hear him on the phone.

“Helen says she’s done put up all she has room for. It’s gonna go to waste if you don’t come get it.”

The garden actually worked Mama harder than anyone else. Dad and I would plow and plant. We did a lot of the early hoeing and cleaning up, trying to keep the crabgrass and coffee weed at bay. But Mama did most all the picking, snapping, shelling, cleaning, canning, and freezing.

It was no wonder that by the end of the season she was tired of it.

“John,” she would say, “I don’t know why you plant so much. I’ve got beans in the pantry and corn in the freezer from last year.”

Today, I’m that neighbor who’s come to pick so the last of it doesn’t go to waste.

A garden in the springtime is a thing of beauty. The seeds breaking ground. The orderly rows. The plants spaced out like soldiers in formation. I love the smell of freshly turned soil.

By the time the end of July comes along, some of that orderliness fades. The crabgrass wins. The morning glory vines have mixed in with the beans. The corn stalks have been bushhogged and are lying across the ground like canes tossed in every direction.

The garden plants that are left standing are tired. Leaf spot has turned the foliage brown. Wilted tomatoes hang from the vine, wounded from the birds that feast on them. Overgrown squash hide in the weeds, abandoned and bloated.

I don’t care how good of a gardener you are, there comes a time when the season is over. The picking is done. The cupboard is full. The freezer is overflowing. Nothing much is left.

Except the okra. It’s the last one standing.

I’m walking along with my bucket, pushing back the stalks, looking for the pods hiding underneath the foliage. I can tell that there might be one or two more small pickings left by the time I’m done today. I’m leaving the young pods. There’s a few flowers left that will produce. But for the most part, this garden is on its last leg.

There’s a lesson here, I think. A parable of sorts about the seasons of a man’s life. I wouldn’t have thought about this if I wasn’t picking okra this morning. And I haven’t decided yet if it’s a lesson worth thinking about.

A man plants his life when he’s young. He’s full of excitement to see what he can grow by the sweat of his brow. He leans into the work and after a while his dreams start to take form. His life is orderly. Week by week, and year by year he tends to his field. The rains come. The sun beats down. After a hard day he sits on the porch in the evening and admires the beauty of all he’s accomplished.

The harvest comes. The work is fierce and the days are long. But the fruit of his labor pays off. He fills his life with all he can hold, and if he is wise, he shares all he can with friends and neighbors. A true gardener is never selfish because he knows that all he has comes not from himself but from the One who gives him the ground to work.

As the season wears on, however, the heat and humidity take their toll. Time robs him of the vigor that once made it impossible for him to slow down. He plows some of his dreams beneath the soil because there’s a time and place for all things to come to an end.

Yet there’s a piece of his life that’s like the okra. The leaves are ratty. A few blooms are holding onto hope. And he’s grateful still to be standing.

That’s me.