Sparrow & Hearth Living

This is our second spring in this house, and for the first time, I finally feel like I’m beginning to truly know the garden.

Last spring, I watched everything mostly from the windows. I was heavily pregnant, moving slowly, and simply trying to make it through those final weeks before welcoming our baby. I noticed the obvious things then — the holly bushes standing faithfully in the corners and the tall irises preparing for their bloom — but I didn’t have the strength or energy to dig deeper.

This year feels different.

This spring, my hands have finally been in the soil.

I’ve spent quiet mornings weeding the front garden beds, uncovering plants that had been hidden beneath overgrowth and neglect. Every few days, something new seems to appear. It feels less like gardening and more like being introduced to an old story someone else started long ago.

The violets have completely taken over our yard — not just the flower beds, but the grass too. Tiny purple blooms scatter across the ground like little gifts I never planted myself. Most people probably see them as weeds, but I can’t help but love them. They make the whole yard feel soft and wild in the sweetest way.

The white irises are breathtaking this year.

They bloom so large and heavy that some nearly topple over under their own beauty. Every time I walk outside, I stop to admire them. There’s something so fleeting about irises — one moment they’re tightly closed, and the next they’re fully open, glowing in the sunlight for only a short while before fading again.

I’ve discovered small hostas tucked beneath the larger plants too, each with delicate purple flowers that somehow survive despite years of being overlooked.

And then there’s the rose bush.

Poor thing.

Whoever planted it before us clearly didn’t understand what roses need to thrive. It sits awkwardly at the far corner of the garden bed where it barely gets enough warmth or protection. It looks tired and tangled, but still determined to bloom anyway.

This summer, I plan to move it closer to the porch where the brick will hold warmth from the sun. I’m hopeful that a better location and a little extra care will help bring it back to life. I still don’t even know what color the roses are yet, which somehow makes me even more excited. It feels like waiting for a surprise.

As I’ve worked outside, I’ve also been cleaning away years of forgotten things — broken solar lights, cracked lawn ornaments, pieces of old garden décor left behind. There’s something satisfying about clearing away what’s broken while making room for new life again.

I found two old lawn ornaments worth saving, though. This summer, I plan to repaint and repair them instead of throwing them away. I like the idea of restoring something old rather than replacing it.

One of my favorite discoveries has been the Jacob’s ladder.

In just the two years we’ve lived here, it has doubled in size. Watching it return fuller and stronger this spring reminds me how much growth happens quietly, beneath the surface, long before we ever notice it.

The other night, I pulled up the original listing photos from when this house was sold. I wanted to see what the gardens looked like before we moved in. It felt a little like peeking into the past — seeing glimpses of how someone else once cared for this place before handing it on to us.

Gardens tell stories.

Every flower planted was once chosen by someone’s hands. Every bush trimmed, every pathway created, every forgotten bulb blooming in spring carries traces of the people who lived here before us.

Now it’s our turn to tend it.

Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
Just little by little, season by season.

I already have plans forming in my mind. I want to line parts of the beds with pebbles instead of traditional mulch and create barriers to keep everything neat and contained. I want cozy corners overflowing with flowers. Herbs near the porch steps. Roses climbing where they can stretch toward the sun.

But more than anything, I want this garden to feel lived in and loved.

I’m realizing that caring for a garden is a lot like caring for a home and family. You don’t build beauty overnight. You nurture it slowly through consistency, patience, and attention. You learn what flourishes, what struggles, and what simply needs more time.

This spring has reminded me that sometimes God gives us beauty we didn’t plant ourselves.

Sometimes we inherit it quietly.
Sometimes we uncover it slowly.
And sometimes the most meaningful work is simply tending what we’ve been given with grateful hands.

“The Lord will continually guide you,
and satisfy your soul in scorched places,
and give strength to your bones;
and you will be like a watered garden,
and like a spring of water whose waters do not fail.”
— Isaiah 58:11 (NASB)