I'm going to begin my short reflection by answering my own question, as if you had asked me "How does your garden grow?" And my answers are very straightforward and practical ones, with practically no hidden meaning or metaphorical significance, unless they happen to speak to you that way! Oh, who am I kidding? You know this is not just about a piece of horticulture! As I said in the newsletter, I tend to see much of life in terms of garden images, and I find that words about gardens are full of poetry. But I’m not disguising any message or wanting you to hear anything but my appreciation of the little bit of nature with which I’m closely acquainted.

My garden is growing rapidly. As many of you know, I have a backyard that was just grass when I moved in almost five years ago. There were no plants to speak of, not even any flowerbeds -- just a very few odd things like a beautiful wildflower which I found out was red campion, and a few perennial cornflowers, and some lilacs around the perimeter. I felt like an artist starting out with an almost empty canvas. I had a plan which I’d sketched out – in my mind and on paper, but I knew that it would have to be adapted to the type of soil and the light conditions as I discovered them. A couple of days ago, my next-door neighbour asked me if I’d like some divisions from her perennials, and I had to say: “They’re lovely, but I don’t think I have room for them.” That’s how full my garden is now.

Much of the fullness comes from plants I’ve been given. Mavis Kerr’s annual perennial exchange (is that confusing? the perennial exchange which she holds annually) – that provided many goodies in the first couple of years. Some of them she warned me would be invasive and they are, gloriously so – bee balm which is about to open its tall scarlet flowers, and miscanthus sinensis, which looks like a nondescript grass until early fall when its glorious feathery plumes develop and wave beautifully over the pond all through the winter, and Canada anemone which is now a big enough clump that I can offer its lovely white flowers to just about anyone who wants some. Ruth Paape gave me a tulip tree – it’s been very slow to get established, and last winter didn’t do it much good, but it’s looking quite at home now and should bloom within the next ten years if I’m lucky! A Palace Purple heuchera from Olga Taylor placidly sits in place, looking quite healthy but totally disinclined to increase and multiply. Others that were good as fillers in the early days now fit the definition of a weed as a plant where it’s not wanted – some of the wild raspberries, for instance: I’m becoming choosy now that I have such abundance!

Some of the plants have travelled with me from Ancaster, where I had my first Canadian garden, and several from Kingsville where I lived before Kitchener. There are sweet williams which grew from seeds my sister sent my first summer here from her English garden. Such a collection of old and new, each with their own associations. And many surprises: things which did well in other places simply don’t thrive here, in a different soil, while others I’ve had no success with before are growing rampantly. I’ve found you never can predict outcomes with any certainty – even when you study what the books say, it’s quite possible that something known to prefer shade will be quite happy in the sun and the other way round – and my neighbour’s huge black walnut tree, whose roots are known for producing a toxin, poisons some plants but leaves others unaffected. Experimenting and risking mistakes is the only good method I’ve found.

One big gardening lesson I learned a few years ago, and go on learning, is the value of patience. Some plants do give fairly instant results -- I've been amazed by how some things have burst into bloom just a couple of weeks after I planted a tiny, dried-up-looking root -- but many more take time to establish themselves. Things I've planted, seen no results from and almost forgotten, will suddenly take off. Shrubs and vines were hard hit by the exceptionally cold winter, and lost much of their top growth, but are growing again from the ground – I must simply accept that they’ve been set back a year or two but they’re by no means dead! The little Rose of Sharon seedlings that I carefully transplanted to better positions last Fall have looked totally lifeless since they emerged from the snow, but a few days ago I spotted a green leaf-bud on one of them, which gives me hope for the rest, even as late as this.

Well, I can't quite resist the temptation to draw your attention to the analogies with our own lives and especially with congregational life. I've been amazed by how strong the natural tendency to growth is. As with my garden, I think my main role in the congregation is simply to appreciate and encourage what's happening naturally. I don't really see any analogy to the brambleberry situation -- I'm not aware of prickly people or thorny problems which need to be confined to one area or kept under control or even eliminated. It's a non-hostile garden here, a friendly one. All the areas of the congregational garden are enriched by the contributions of individuals, just as mine has been enriched by the plants I've been given. Transplants are important, too -- whether it's people who've moved from Calgary or those who've come from Catholicism. Not everyone will find the Waterloo soil or Unitarian climate compatible with their needs in the long run, but some are already blossoming beautifully.

As with my garden, so in my personal and ministerial life, one of the big lessons I continue to learn is the value of patience. Some ideas and projects have fairly instant results, but many more take time to establish themselves. Some concepts I came up with a while ago and hoped would be budding by now have let me know that I'll have to wait a while longer for bloom. And I'm finding that I need to keep weeding out my less-than-perfect work habits in order to make conditions right for growth. In the congregation, as well as in my garden, I'm learning the value of patience and persistence, and finding out that some plantings don't produce results right away. I wouldn’t be surprised if Board members and other leaders are finding the same thing – but the lesson may come more easily to more patient people!

On the other hand, I'm almost overwhelmed by the vitality and diversity of the blossoms here -- from the almost-overlooked but exquisite little flowers hiding behind the larger and more flamboyant ones to the evergreen shrubs which make up in hardiness what they lack in colour. When I first came to Canada from England, in 1962, I went to Edmonton, where the climate was, to say the least, more extreme than I was used to. It amazed me how the spring, summer and autumn that I'd known all my life were suddenly crammed into about three months, total. All the flowers that I was familiar with still grew there, but over such a short growing season! They all seemed to bloom at once. Later, when I visited East Africa, I saw the flip-side of this -- even more dramatic. In my friend's garden there, flowers bloomed year-round, the daffodils right along with the roses and the dahlias and the tulips and the chrysanthemums. Very strange indeed! Here in Waterloo, I sometimes feel a little bit of the same sense of everything-at-once in this congregational garden. It's marvellous, but occasionally it’s hard to take it all in.

Another thing about this congregational garden is that the minister can much too easily overwhelm the other flowers in the talking part of the services. (It's probably lucky that I'm a total non-performer musically, so at least that aspect of the service always belongs to someone else, or to several others.) Sometimes I'm particularly aware of all the talking I do, and today I feel a little bit like the minister in this story which I love as a cautionary tale:

It seems that a Christian minister had a tradition of doing children's talks each week and had devoted them to instructing the children about the greatness of Jesus. One Sunday, after several months of this, he began his children's talk by asking, "What's gray and furry, with a bushy tail, and eats nuts and climbs trees?" There was silence until one little girl timidly raised her hand and said, "It sounds like a squirrel, but I'll bet it's Jesus."

That minister asked a question as an excuse for a lesson. I've asked a question, "How does your garden grow?" and proceeded to tell you how mine grows rather than listening to your answers. But if you'll forgive the pun, I'd like to plant the seed of this question in your minds today in the hope that you'll give it some thought over the next few weeks and perhaps give me the benefit of your answers as they come to you. How does your garden -- at home or in this congregation -- grow? What can you say about the flowers in this garden? Can you compare a particular member to an orchid or a daisy or a dandelion? Can you name a particular cultivating job that's been done or needs to be done, or some plant that needs special care, or some gardener who's been giving special care? In other words, the title for today is a real and open question for your consideration. How does your garden/ our garden grow? -- and what would help it grow better? As you ponder it over the summer, please know that as for me, whenever I look at this beautiful, healthy growing congregation, I am grateful for the privilege of watching so many flowers unfold!