For me, my garden has always been a secure spot. After my spouse died, it became into more than just a hobby; it turned into a place to heal. When the world seemed too quiet, putting my hands into the ground, planting seeds, and watching life grow anew gave me a sense of purpose. It’s where I go to relax and feel close to the soil and, in a lot of ways, to him.
Sarah, my daughter, gave me the empty lot next to her house, which made the small area in my yard grow into something bigger. She knew how much I liked to garden, so giving me that space felt like a gift of love. I really cared about it. Every weekend and most early mornings, you could find me out there growing rows of herbs, lettuce, squash, peppers, tomatoes, and other vegetables. My grandkids helped me make wooden beds that were higher off the ground. They had a great time digging and splashing in the watering can. We made signs with the names of the plants and even put in a small bench so we could sit together and look at what we had done.
For a while, it was perfect.
But as time went on, I began to notice minor things that didn’t seem right. The next day, I was going to pick a ripe tomato, but it was gone. A week later, it appeared like someone had hacked down a row of cucumbers. At first, I felt animals like squirrels were to blame. I also thought that one of my grandsons might have gotten too excited and picked something without telling me. It was easier to believe that than to think that someone would steal something so personal and valuable.
Then, one morning, everything changed. I took my basket out to the garden to fill it with the first big harvest of the year. But there was nothing on the vines. There are no more ripe cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, or squash. Cleared out. Not one left behind.
I stood there in silence, feeling a mix of shock, bewilderment, sorrow, and yes, anger. It wasn’t only the vegetables. It was about the effort, the memories, and the healing I had done to that ground. It felt like someone had broken into my sacred space and taken something from me.
Sarah was just as mad as I was. We spoke about every possible cause, but we both knew that someone had been stealing stuff from the garden. So we made the decision to find out for sure. Sarah set up a little camera on her back porch that turns on when it spots movement. It was in the perfect spot to see anyone who came into the lot at odd times.
The next day, we watched the video again. And there she was, clear as day.
The woman who lived two doors down, Wilma. She was slowly walking through the garden with a big reusable bag over her shoulder, picking the ripest vegetables and putting them in the bag. She didn’t seem to be in a rush or ashamed. She looked calm. She dealt with the problem in a planned way. Like someone who had done this before.
I was shocked. Wilma and I had never been close, but we had always been nice to each other when we saw each other. She didn’t say much, stayed by herself, and was rarely seen outside. I never would have imagined she was guilty.
I wanted to face her right away, ask her why she did it, and call her out. But something inside me halted. It might have been because I was older. It could have been the garden that taught me how to be patient, grow, and be nice. I didn’t want this to turn into a fight with yelling. I didn’t want anger to bloom in the same place where I had tried to achieve peace.
I want to do things differently.
That afternoon, I walked over to Wilma’s door with a basket full of fresh fruits and veggies that I had conserved from my previous harvests. I knocked, and when she opened the door, I smiled and handed her the basket.
I said, “I brought it right to you because you like my garden so much.”
Her eyes got bigger. Her face got really red. She stared at me, then at the basket, and then back at me. She closed the door without saying anything.
That could have been the end of it: a public shame, a discreet exit, and no more contact. But that didn’t seem right to me. There was a reason she did it. People don’t steal from their neighbors for fun. Something has to be going on.
So I started talking about it with other individuals in the region in a nice way. I never said she was guilty. I didn’t even speak her name at first. I just remarked that someone close to us might be going through a tough time and that we should check in. As dedicated people do, the community came together immediately. People in the area started dropping food at Wilma’s door, bringing her extra groceries, and even baked goods with nice notes. No judgment. Just little things that are nice.
A few days later, Wilma arrived to my door. She looked different—sad, exhausted, and weak. She claimed she was sorry. She told me that her husband had lost his job and that things were worse than she had expected they would be. She didn’t know how to ask for help. Taking from my garden was the last thing I wanted to do.
I listened. Then I asked her and her husband if they would help me plant again what I had lost. At first, she wasn’t sure. But then she said yes. They came by once a week to help with things like watering, planting seedlings, picking weeds, and learning. I showed them how to stake beans, care for tomatoes, and make compost. We talked some more. At times, we laughed. It was a surprise that we became friends.
At the end of summer, Wilma had made a small garden in her backyard. She was happy to show me the first cherry tomatoes that her vines had grown. She said it was the first time in years that she felt like she could make something. Of growth.
In the end, it wasn’t just about the stolen vegetables. It was about how we react to damage and whether we judge or boost up. No one would have blamed me if I had gotten upset. But I’m glad I chose grace. I’m glad I let the garden and its calm wisdom guide me.
Yes, justice was done. But the most important thing was that kindness grew. And, as always, peace returned, one tomato at a time.
