Tomato Seed

By Robin Stone

I fought against my feelings as I dutifully followed Sister Mary Frances into the basement and out of the March sun. After the blustery winter weather of the last several months, did I really want to leave the welcome warmth of the sun on my face to help Sister start tomato seeds inside? I had always wanted to learn more about gardening and growing food, but to be inside on this beautiful day, the first in what felt like ages, was a bitter pill.

Obedience. Trust. Alacrity. These are things you learn in the convent. These are the things I did not realize I so severely lacked until I arrived at a Franciscan convent to begin formation as a pre-postulant. Alacrity was a rather new word for me that seemed to mean to the sisters not only obedience but a happy, willing, eager “Yes!” to whatever is asked of you. It was inspiring and
beautiful to see the young sisters jump up from whatever project they were in the middle of to help another sister carry a load or to follow an instruction, no matter how seemingly trivial, from a superior.

Yet, whenever I was asked to leave what I was doing or wished to do, my heart sank, my feet dragged, my eyes wondered longingly toward the unfinished project that called to me for attention
and completion. Brother Ass, as St. Francis was wont to call his body and its earthly passions, always wants his own way, a way firmly planted on the earth.

At that moment, I stepped farther down into the earth by way of the steps into a basement. By doing so, could I raise my soul toward heaven, following the low path in faithfulness to that great paradox that the low shall be made high? I sat next to a humble sister, who herself would undoubtedly have chosen to be above ground or, better yet, atop a mountain on such a day. Uncomplaining and joyful as she sat at a folding table in the basement, she was clearly farther along in the work to conform her will to God’s will. I strove to listen to her instructions and make sense of them in my mind, which was clouded with my own desires.

We placed spoonfuls of soil into egg cartons and planted tiny tomato seeds, covering them with a thin layer of dirt. A vision of my grandfather came to mind, and I shared my childhood memory of eating the sweetest and juiciest tomatoes from his garden. He had saved those for me in anticipation of my visit because he delighted in my delight of his produce. Sister then told me the community story that these tomato seeds are curiously labeled with family names rather than genus names. The seeds have been saved from tomatoes shared with this Franciscan community by neighboring families. The community honors them and remembers their kindness by always referring to these tomatoes with names like “Jacobs”, “Lipinski”, “Marks”, and “Giant Jacobs” (“GJ”) for the rather large variety provided by Mr. Jacobs.

The original gift certainly pre-dates the short years that this young sister had spent here, a fact you would not know because of the warmth and gratitude with which she related the story. My mind had soon forgotten the loss of the outdoor work and the warmth of the sunshine for the radiance beaming from a young sister, a vision of the light of Christ reflecting through a young woman who
has given her life to Him.

We raised our eyes to see Mother Superior at the top of the basement stairs when she poked her head in the door and cheerfully asked “What are you two up to down here?” Without skipping a beat, Sister Mary Frances grinned and exclaimed “We’re making spaghetti sauce!” Perplexed for a moment, both Mother and I had a hearty laugh when our minds reached the end of the winding path from seed to garden to fruit to harvest to canning and all the way to the dinner table atop a plate of pasta to fill the tummies of joyful and hungry sisters, and perhaps some of their friends, too. With a note of approval and mirth, Mother disappeared behind the door as quickly as she had appeared, and I was
left to ponder the fate of a tomato seed.

The tiny seeds, now hidden in the soil, will in time be raised to the grandeur of the festival table. It is the promise of the loving Father who designed the pattern of death and new life after the pattern of the second person of the Trinity: the Word become flesh was planted in the womb of the Virgin to bring Life to the world. The Way, planted in the earth after death, was raised to glory that we all
may share in the bounty of the Heavenly Feast.

The light of the Son of the living God radiated through the ever more perfect lens of a young sister that day to clear the clouds of my own will from my interior vision and to warm my soul with greater warmth than even the bright noontime sun can provide.