I recently wrote that my husband is the optimist in our marriage, and I am the realist. It occurred to me, however, that there is an exception. Whenever discussion on our garden takes place, we switch roles. Vehemently.

I’m a sucker, and I already know this. Whenever I peruse the seed catalogs, I have visions of daffodils dancing in my head. I dream of a tropical paradise, lush and blooming, surrounding our home. We will sit down to organically homegrown grub every evening, enjoying the proverbial and literal fruits of our labors. I will pick wildflowers for my hair on Saturday afternoons, and all my seeds will take. There are no bugs and blight in my visions, and hurricanes are hunkered down with my favorite weatherman, Tom Terry, and his super-dooper Doppler radar.

Several seasons of gardening under my belt, however, have conformed my thinking to a more realistic perspective. Though, I don’t usually turn into the pessimist until after the crop has failed. Yet, I still approach the beginning of a project with much optimism and determination.

This is because I am the brains behind the project, and my husband is the brawn. I research and design; he implements. After several failures to my credit, however, I’m inclined to say that my husband is the brawn and the brains. He knows when to quit.

My husband– may God bless him—knows when to quit, and since the venture we’ve chosen is a good one, he doesn’t. It is better to correct our mistakes than to throw in the towel. He knows this, and so we keep on. Greg has hauled an entire dump truck load of dirt by hand, designed and built several irrigation systems, and planted hundreds of plants. He has built beds, tilled beds, weeded beds, and moved, raked, and spread hundreds of yards of mulch.

We’ve had some successes, but we’ve had failures as well. When most people experience failures, they throw their hands up and proclaim that they have a “black thumb.” If the chickens don’t lay, they shoot ‘em and use the henhouse as firewood. If the tomatoes don’t produce, they yank ‘em and plant shrubs in their place. If the strawberries aren’t plentiful, they never try again. This is a bad way to approach life.

The beautiful thing about all our gardening failures, of which there are many, is that we know what doesn’t work. This is a good start on the path to determining what does work. The first time we planted strawberries, we did three things wrong. The second time we planted strawberries, we did two things wrong. This year, we only did one thing wrong. I’m thinking that next planting will be the time we get it right. (Right, Greg? …Greg?) We are learning what works by learning what doesn’t work. While the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, a crooked line heading in the right direction is better than a straight one going the wrong way.

The path of difficulty is also the path of blessing. If we want our children not to grow weary in doing good, we ourselves shouldn’t prefer the easy path. (I’m also not saying that we should choose the difficult path for piety’s sake, just that we should embrace hardship when it lies before us, which it will if we choose not to conform to this world.) The narrow way is Jesus’ way, and it is the good life.

If we really believe in what we’re doing, missteps are something to learn from. Sometimes our failures are clues that we’re on the wrong path, but if we are on the right one, they can help us see the goal more clearly. It isn’t enough to just pat ourselves on the back for choosing a good thing, and then go on with the expectation that since we’ve chosen the good thing that the matter will turn out in the end. Not only will work be required, but self-correcting steps (counsel, research, and self-examination, to name a few) along the way are necessary as well. There isn’t much time for pride, as the crop is never perfect until Glory, you know?

People don’t realize the problems they experience are often correctable. If you have bad soil, instead of excusing yourself on the grounds of your sandy soil, you should get started on making compost instead. If your tomato seeds don’t sprout, you should ask your neighbor who is in his driveway selling tomatoes, why.

When I noticed that one of my children was being ungrateful, I didn’t throw up my hands and pity myself (and our whole household) for having to live with an ingrate. Instead, I stopped contributing to the problem by allowing the child to satisfy his appetites immediately. This was my fault, and it was a correctable one. Delayed gratification will serve him well in a Chinese prison, or at the very least, enable him to resist purchasing patio furniture on credit.

So, I have a bountiful crop of yellow crookneck summer squash coming in. You can’t make too many mistakes with squash, as it grows easily. We won’t be eating berries with our squash, but you never know what next season will bring. I can’t wait—daffodils and strawberries and wildflowers and…. Assuming my husband is still speaking to me, that is.