The Garden Manager
Diana Keough’s second “Between Sundays” column explores how faith is tested not in church, but in the ordinary conflicts of daily life. When a spat over garden plots spirals, she learns that true grace means apologizing—and accepting forgiveness—where it’s least deserved.
Diana Keough | Between Sundays column | community garden
Bending over my garden, I exclaimed, “I’ve got a zucchini growing! Oh my gosh, this never gets old!”
I’ve been planting in this little nine-by-six plot in our community garden for over two years now. I’ve always been a gardener, but never one who gardened in public. There’s a vulnerability to it—your weeds are on display, your spacing up for judgment, your sun-scorched spinach there for all to see.
But it also has its benefits: the friends I’ve made, the produce we share, the tips we trade, the quiet nod of someone two beds over who also gets the joy of coaxing something green out of the dirt.
Diana Keough | Between Sundays column | community garden
And then there’s the garden manager.
Let’s just say she’s...committed. Her tone in every group text somehow manages to carry the energy of a traffic cop.
That morning, when I proudly announced my zucchini discovery, I didn’t realize she was standing nearby.
“Listen,” she said, her voice all business with none of that “I just found a zucchini” joy I was feeling. “We need to keep the aisles clear.”
She was referring to the three pots at the end of my bed—strawberries and two bonus tomato plants. And just like that, I realized who I was talking to.
“They make it hard to get to my side bed,” she said. “And you need to make sure nothing is growing outside the beds,” she added, pointing to my rosemary, which leans out like a lazy arm over a porch railing.
And that’s all it took.
Something in me snapped. The floodgates opened, and words—sharp, polished, pointed—poured out of my mouth like a fire-breathing dragon with a thesaurus.
“Really? That’s what’s keeping you from your bed? Really?” I said, maybe with a cackle.
It’s the kind of thing that sounds beautiful in theory—like something you’d cross-stitch on a pillow. But when applied to real-life situations, it gets a little more complicated.
I told her this was supposed to be a place of peace, of growth, of fun, and that her rules were ridiculous. I may have said that plants spilling out of beds were beautiful. I may have mentioned that there are bigger things to worry about in the world. I may have brought up—unnecessarily—how other gardeners laughed behind her back at her texts.
I definitely yelled, “And I was going to offer you some of my radishes!” as she turned and walked away.
I got the last word. And for about four days, it felt glorious.
That is, until a road trip with my husband, when we were listening to John Ortberg’s If You Want to Walk on Water, You’ve Got to Get Out of the Boat—a book we’re discussing in our small group Bible study.
Yes, you read that right. A Bible study.
Ortberg was talking about what it means to see others the way Jesus does. “In a social setting,” he writes, “whisper ‘God’ or ‘Jesus’ quietly as you glance at each person near you. Practice double vision—see the person as they are and the person as Christ wants them to be.”
It’s the kind of thing that sounds beautiful in theory—like something you’d cross-stitch on a pillow or quote in a small group. But when applied to real-life situations—say, a garden tiff over tomato pots—it gets a little more complicated. Because seeing people through the eyes of Christ means choosing compassion over irritation, grace over pride, humility over being right. It means remembering there’s a whole slew of Bible verses that ask us to love our enemies, forgive as we’ve been forgiven, and love our neighbors as ourselves. Not just the neighbors who thank us or bake us banana bread—but the ones who send passive-aggressive group texts and don’t like how our rosemary grows.
Diana Keough | Between Sundays column | community garden
I felt the word hypocrite write itself across my forehead. My stomach flipped. My hands shook. That little post-adrenaline tremor showed up—not the kind that comes from being right, but from realizing how wrong you were.
I knew better. Much better.
So today, I poured a handful of nasturtium seeds into a Ziploc bag and placed them in her garden. She wasn’t there, but I left them anyway.
Then, before I left the garden, I sent her this text:
“Hi [Her Name], Diana Keough here. I left you a few nasturtium seeds in a Ziploc bag tucked under one of your tomato plants. Please consider it a peace offering—and an apology—for the words I hurled at you last week. I know you’re just trying to do your job, and you didn’t deserve that.
I appreciate all you’re doing to keep our garden orderly and neat, and the time you invest (voluntarily!) to do such a thankless job.
I’m asking for your forgiveness and hoping we can start again. Again, I’m sorry. —Diana”
About an hour later, she responded.
It’s humbling to be forgiven so quickly and so warmly, especially when you know you haven’t earned it. But that’s the whole thing about grace, isn’t it? It roots itself where we least deserve it and insists on growing anyway.
“Dear Diana, Thank you so much for your kind and heartfelt message—and for the nasturtium seeds! That was such a thoughtful gesture, and I truly appreciate it.
Please know that your apology is warmly received, and I sincerely accept it. We all have our moments, and it means a great deal that you took the time to reach out with such honesty and grace.
I’m more than happy to start fresh, and I truly look forward to working together in the garden with renewed goodwill. It’s a space we all care about, and it’s so much richer when we can nurture it—and our relationships—with mutual respect and understanding.
Thank you again, Diana. Here’s to new beginnings and beautiful blooms ahead!
Warmly, [Her Name]”
Somehow, her kind response made me feel even more awful about my behavior. Not because she guilted me—she didn’t. Quite the opposite. Her words were full of grace, humility, and kindness. She offered exactly what I hadn’t given her in that moment: the benefit of the doubt. Her generosity made my harshness feel even sharper in hindsight. It’s humbling to be forgiven so quickly and so warmly, especially when you know you haven’t earned it.
But that’s the whole thing about grace, isn’t it? It roots itself where we least deserve it and insists on growing anyway.
Repentance, even in a garden bed, is real. It reminds me that I’m still growing, too—still learning how to prune back pride and plant something better in its place.
And wouldn’t you know? That rosemary is still leaning over the edge. Just a little. And I’m still not moving my pots.
Read Diana's kickoff “Between Sundays” column from May
Diana Keough is an award-winning journalist and professor of journalism at the University of Georgia. She is currently working on a multimedia memoir project titled Not From a Nice Family.
“fire-breathing dragon with a thesaurus”!! LOL, we’ve all been there.
What a wonderful essay about God’s grace and knowing…your path is full of bumps (and blooms!) no matter where you might be.
This is a beautiful example of grace and mercy, as well as “forgive those who trespass against us”. Very inspiring.