The Gardener on Montague Street

In the spring of 1987, Ruth Caldwell knelt in the cracked soil behind her rowhouse in Baltimore and planted twelve tomato seedlings. She was sixty-three, recently widowed, and her prayer that morning had been modest: Lord, just give me something to do with my hands.

The tomatoes came in heavy that August — far more than she could eat. She set a card table on the sidewalk with a hand-lettered sign: FREE. TAKE WHAT YOU NEED. Neighbors she had never spoken to stopped. A young mother named Denise lingered, and Ruth invited her inside for iced tea. That conversation became a Tuesday habit. Denise brought her sister. Her sister brought a friend from the shelter on Eager Street.

Within two years, Ruth's backyard hosted thirty raised beds tended by people from eleven households. The city donated an adjacent vacant lot. A local church provided lumber. By the time Ruth died in 2004, the Montague Street Community Garden fed over two hundred families and had spawned a job-training program for teenagers that still operates today.

Ruth never asked for any of it. She asked for something to do with her hands.

Ephesians 3:20 tells us that God is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine. Ruth imagined twelve tomato plants. God imagined a neighborhood reborn. That is the kind of Father we serve — One whose abundance makes our boldest prayers look like rough sketches of what He already had in mind.