Lessons from My Tomato Plants: Faith, Growth, and the Beauty of God’s Timing

People say millennials skip straight from having babies to grandma hobbies—and I guess I fall into that category. A few years ago, I decided to learn how to pressure-can food. I had this picture in my head of rows of mason jars filled with homemade garden pasta sauce, neatly lined on pantry shelves. Mason jars are nothing new to me—I used them for centerpieces at my wedding, drink from them daily, and store everything from craft supplies to leftover cereal.

Early last year, I decided in a burst of ambition that I’d finally have time to start a garden. Grocery prices kept climbing, and as one of the five people in my home who actually eats vegetables, it felt like the right time. I leveled out four raised beds in my small backyard and started seeds indoors.

The cucumbers thrived. The peppers produced. The okra grew taller than my 6’5” husband. But the tomatoes—oh, the tomatoes. If it’s on Google, I tried it. Perfect compost, perfect watering, perfect sunlight, fertilizer, pruning, pest control. And still—nothing. The plants grew a foot tall and stopped. They didn’t die, but they didn’t grow either. Just… frozen in time.

Months passed. I gave up. As the other plants began to wither, I tossed their vines and scraps onto the stubborn tomato plants, assuming they were done.

Two weeks later, while watering my herbs, I caught a glimpse of something green. I blinked. Five baby beefsteak tomatoes—thriving in the weeds. No care, no attention, no plan. Just life, in the quiet.

And I realized: my life has been a lot like those tomato plants.

I’ve been poured into—by loving parents, a safe home, full plates, and countless blessings. I’ve always worked hard, shown up early, stayed late, and done more than expected. I’ve been grateful, humble, and comfortable. But I’ve also been… still. Like those tomatoes.

Since college, I’ve lived in the corporate world—always working, sometimes at more than one job, to make ends meet or earn a little extra. I’ve never had to question where my next paycheck would come from. But when people asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”—I never really had an answer.

I know who I want to be: a wife, a mother, a helper, a kind and faithful person. I want to be present in those roles.

Balancing corporate life with faith, motherhood, and self-care feels almost impossible. But God, in His perfect timing, has always placed me where I needed to be. And now, He’s brought me home—physically home with my babies—but still working full-time, still serving someone else’s dreams. Still dependent.

And I’m tired of being dependent. I want to thrive, to grow in my own weeds, in my own time. I want to create something lasting—something that weaves together my faith, my work, and my hands. A legacy my children can see and touch. I don’t want them to grow up watching their mother serve someone else’s vision. I want them to see her building her own—with grace, grit, and gratitude.

I think we’ve been asking the wrong question all along. It’s not what do you want to be, but who do you want to be—and why? What is your purpose?

I don’t have all the answers, and maybe I never will. But I know this: God has called me to be a mother to these precious souls, to guide them, to teach them, and to be fully present as they grow into warriors and lights for Him.

Faith without works is dead—and maybe that’s what my tomatoes were trying to tell me. Growth takes faith, yes, but it also takes action, perseverance, and sometimes the willingness to let go and let God.

James 2:14–26 reminds us that belief alone isn’t enough—we must live our faith. And sometimes that means tending to the garden, even when nothing seems to grow. Because in His time, and often in the weeds, the fruit finally comes.