“Tuesday Tomatoes”

I planted my first tomato plant with more hope than knowledge. There was something deeply satisfying about tucking it into the soil like a quiet promise between me and the earth. I imagined the joy of watching it grow, of picking tomatoes still warm from the sun, tasting something I had coaxed into life with my own hands.

Lately, I’ve been feeling frustrated with the world and how much my life feels out of control. Gardening became my small refuge, a hobby meant to help me cope with my daily challenges. It’s one place where I can focus on what’s within my power: nurturing, tending, waiting.

Then the rains came—not once but over and over–heavy, unrelenting, drowning out my early enthusiasm. The tomatoes that had begun to grow slowly turned soft and black, never reaching ripeness. I checked the plant every day, my optimism wilting alongside the stems.

It’s strange how invested you can become in something so small. I didn’t expect to feel such disappointment. It wasn’t just about the tomatoes. It was the sense of trying–really trying–and seeing nothing come of it. I started to wonder if I’d done something wrong, or if some things just weren’t meant to grow.

But nature has its own rhythm, one I’m slowly learning to trust.

Today, on an ordinary Tuesday, I found four tiny tomatoes–bright, firm, and quietly defiant. No fanfare, just quiet resilience. They felt like a small gift, not just from the plant, but from the process itself. A reminder that sometimes, we don’t see the fruits of our care until long after we’ve stopped expecting them.

And somehow, these four little tomatoes made me feel hope again. Not the loud kind, but the gentle kind that lives in the background, waiting for its moment to surface.

We have to hold on to that hope, even when it feels fragile or distant, because it helps us endure everything we cannot control.

It’s the small things, growing quietly against the odds, that remind us what strength really looks like.